


Sandstorm

by The_Idonian



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: And they have no idea who it is, Australia, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical swearing, Explosions, Gen, History, Hover-car chases, Humor, Mystery, Running Gags, Some accents, The Administrator is probably going to have a stroke at some point, There's someone better at being a magnificent bastard than her, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, We do but hindsight is nice like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-14 11:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 60,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11207073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Idonian/pseuds/The_Idonian
Summary: A courier carrying top secret intelligence is found dead in the desert, the briefcase and killer gone without a trace, and it is up to Miss Pauling to track down both. But as she and the men of RED dive deeper, trails go mysteriously cold and someone is always a step ahead. Soon classified information is being stolen at an alarming rate, and if Miss Pauling can’t figure it out in time, the Badlands will change forever…This is a story where everyone already knows the end result, but how exactly the series of events came to be is unknown. Here, I attempt to bridge the gap.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a 17 month odyssey, all to answer one fundamental question. It didn’t start out that way, but that’s what this story ended up being. Originally I saw an amazing piece of art by bielek on deviantart, and wanted to create a story for how such an image would come to be. But one thing led to another in my desire for a watertight plot, and it all resulted in the monstrosity you see before you. You can find the artwork at: (bielek.deviantart. com/art/ TF2-Spy-and-Sniper-353913415)
> 
> As stated before, the inspiration for this work came from Bielek’s work, and from Car Crash by Three Days Grace.
> 
> Many thanks are due to penguinlove2506, for helping me get started. Without them, I would not be writing. You can find them at: (shye-bird.deviantart.com/)
> 
> Many thanks and cookies are due to my beta, Taylorbeth. They always challenged me to improve and spent long hours debating canon and word choice with me. I am grateful to have met them, and even more so to have such a skilled editor. They can be found at: (taylorbeth.deviantart. com/) or (https://www.fanfiction.net/u/8292273/)
> 
> CYA: Valve stuff belongs to Valve. All original characters and places (ie, ones that Valve has not specifically created) belong to me. This story is quite obviously fiction. Any resemblance of characters, places, organizations, and any things to real life beyond historical ground truthing is coincidental or cited. If I forget to cite any references, feel free to leave a comment.
> 
> I love feedback. Shoot me a comment!
> 
> This has been a long time coming. I bring you: Sandstorm.

_ 1970 _

_ Badlands of New Mexico _

 

 

Miss Pauling took her sunglasses off, squinted in the early morning sunlight, and peered into a set of large binoculars. Had someone asked where she got such a large pair, which were of such high quality as to be any CIA agent’s dream, she probably would have had to kill them. As it was, most people who got close enough to see them were as good as dead. It was only a matter of time, and a matter of pride for Miss Pauling. She adjusted the straps on her backpack, which contained water, snacks, a hacksaw, and a shovel (because there was always the possibility that one of the many people she dealt with would get funny ideas about whose side they were on) and continued walking.

The desert sun skulked on the eastern horizon. All things considered, it wasn’t a _bad_ time to be walking a few miles in the Badlands of New Mexico. But had she been given a choice, a nice cafe with a good selection of coffee and pastries would have been a more comfortable place to collect important intelligence. 

This particular intelligence, however, was so secret that she had to meet the courier in the middle of the godforsaken desert at these precise coordinates, and the man didn’t even know what was in the briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. Which was why she had to wake up at stupid-o’clock, she had a tear in _another_ pair of stockings, and there was sand in her shoes. Some days she really had to remind herself that she liked her job.

Miss Pauling stopped and pulled out the heavy GPS device from her bag, extending all of the antennas and waiting patiently for the device to announce her location. A few minutes later, the coordinates appeared on the screen. This was the place, sure enough. But where was the courier? She should have seen him by now. She checked her watch, which was one of those beautiful wind-up watches that came as a job bonus. It was the kind that wound using your own body movement and as a result was always on time. She was a few minutes early, but she should have at least seen the man.

Miss Pauling heaved a sigh. She _hated_ having to track people down. It was so inconvenient, and awkward in public places. 

Miss Pauling took a sip of her water and packed up her bag, sitting on it and looking around. Off in the distance she spied a few birds wheeling in the early dawn light, dark silhouettes against a crimson sky. She used her binoculars to get a better look at the circling birds. Vultures. A heavy weight settled in her stomach, and she headed off to see what they were drawn towards. 

Had she arrived later in the day, the smell would have been unbearable. As it was, it was definitely the courier. Well, most of him. Part of his head was gone, for one thing. His hand was missing too, which she found after a brief search of the area. 

And the briefcase. That was definitely the important part.

Miss Pauling forced a swell of panic down, trying to calm herself. As a last resort she pulled out her GPS again, initiating the tracking device in the briefcase. It could sense the signal from miles away, but as she swung the device around and listened, she didn’t hear a single blip.

Her hands dropped, the GPS limp in her hands. Miss Pauling’s shoulders slumped, and she drew a shaky breath. That information, a briefcase so important that the unfortunate courier had been killed for it, was so secret nobody should have known that it existed anymore. And it was gone. Nobody should have known it existed, let alone know that a copy of it was going to be here. And now? Who knew where it could be.

Miss Pauling sighed, rubbed her face, and set back out towards her truck. There was nothing more she could do here, except maybe scream and kick the body until she felt better. Removing fingerprints and burying bodies? She was an old pro at that. Finding a thief and murderer in the desert? Not so much.

This was a job for a professional. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Within this story, some of the characters have accents, some thick enough to cut cheese with. I personally appreciate a little accent use, because when I read it's like a movie. With accents, I can 'hear' them a little better in my head and feel more realistic. There will be footnotes and translations for relevant slang. If they're too thick for some people to understand, let me know and I can email them a cleaner version.
> 
> My mental theme song for Miss Pauling is Don’t Fear the Reaper, by Blue Oyster Cult.


	2. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the behest of my beta, I believe that some explanation about Team Fortress 2 might help those unfamiliar with the minutiae of the lore. For those who are acquainted with the lore, you won’t be missing much if you skip this.

A long time ago, three brothers were born. Two of them, hateful and narrow minded from birth, would later convince their father to buy a useless piece of land in the New Mexican Badlands. Their father’s will would curse them to jointly own it in his death, as well as giving his company, Mann Co, to his close friend Barnabas Hale. Sharing the land ignited a war between Redmond and Blutarch Mann, and would cause them to use Australium, the world’s most jealously guarded miracle metal, to extend their lives in the hope that the other would die first. They would go on to form the corporations of RED and BLU, waging a war that stretched on for more than one hundred years. 

Each man hired nine mercenaries, all specializing in unique skills. They represented the best of the best from around the world. The Australian Sniper, The Scout from Boston, The French Spy, The Scottish Demoman, The American Soldier, The Heavy Weapons Guy from Russia, The German Medic, The Texan Engineer, and The Pyro from who knows where. Nine mercenaries on each team, fighting the Gravel Wars in bitter stalemate, dying and coming back to life just like a punch clock using technology called Respawn.

And behind each corporation, Reliable Excavation and Demolition and Builders League United, was a shadowy figure in charge. The Administrator. Like a black widow, she spins webs of control around the world as she pleases. Mann Co, now run by Barnabas’ descendant Saxton Hale, is a subsidiary of Team Fortress Inc., the shadowy company that the Administrator runs. She is always in control, especially of the mercenaries. Assisted by Miss Pauling, they manage the Gravel Wars. Through RED and BLU, who secretly control half of the world’s governments each, she controls the world.

The third brother was a ruthless intellectual, saved from smothering at birth by a providential kidnapping eagle. Raised by eagles, he crawled back to civilization after killing and eating his adoptive mother and sibling. Grey went on to build up a corporate empire. He was last seen in the 1850s attempting to blackmail his father to obtain Australium. 

Australium, having turned the whole of Australia into muscle bound intellectuals, is the source of all technological innovations. This transformative element’s properties, among other things, have given the world cloaking, teleportation, and the ability to stave off death.

A long time ago, three brothers were born. One hundred twenty years later, in 1970, actions set in place long ago will change the world. 


	3. Red Sky at Morning

_ Badlands  _

_ RED Base _

 

 

Vultures were circling off in the distance. Sniper sipped his coffee and watched them dispassionately.

What was more interesting was the sudden ceasefire that had been called just after dawn. No warning the night before, just a short message over the intercom proclaiming that today’s match had been cancelled. The Australian wasn’t one to complain about an unexpected day off, but this was strange even for the Administrator. The day was a beauty, the team was prepared to fight, and he could only assume that the BLUs were as well. It was a good day for someone else to die.

Sniper poured himself a little more coffee out of his thermos and breathed in the sweet morning air. He liked mornings high up in a sniper nest. He could drink his coffee in peace, watch the sunrise, and decide where the enemy sniper was most likely to set up camp for the day. You could pretty damn well see everything from up here. 

He took another sip, and noticed a trail of dust coming up the road to the base. A glance in his rifle scope confirmed that it was Miss Pauling and her purple truck, seemingly hell bent on arriving before the dust a mile away had time to settle. He felt a twinge of unease as she approached the RED base and parked her truck outside of the gate, not even wasting time to open it before hopping it and running inside. She was moving too quickly for this to be just a courtesy call. He drank the last of his coffee, grabbed his gun, and then descended from the tower.

As he reached the bottom, Heavy padded around the corner, who for being such a large Russian man could walk extremely softly at times.

“Miss Pauling is here for you,” the big Russian said.

A flash of curiosity momentarily overtook his unease, with overtones of alarm. Miss Pauling was not a woman to be trifled with. “Wot’s this about?”

Heavy shrugged, his brow wrinkling. Miss Pauling, as the secretary of the Administrator, did many tasks in order to keep the men fighting and out of jail. Her visits were infrequent and sporadic, so if she had come to see them it had to be for something important. “We shall see. Come.”

He followed Heavy into the building, down several flights of stairs, and down the hall to the war room. As they approached he could hear a regrettably familiar sound.

“-an’ ya wouldn’t believe what I did next Miss Pauling, it was freakin’ sweet the way I swung off of the roof and pummeled their Heavy to the ground, it was like a wicked curbstomp but then I-”

Sniper rolled his eyes. While Scout needed no help in annoying every man on base when he became bored, every time Miss Pauling paid a visit it was as if a switch flipped in the hooligan from Boston and turned all of the knobs up to eleven. 

Heavy glanced at Sniper. “I do not think she will stay long.”

Miss Pauling’s expression changed from one of stress and irritation to something resembling relief as Sniper entered the room. The entire team had already arrived, and it appeared that Heavy had been sent to collect the bushman. Spread on the table was a map of the Badlands, and Spy was nonchalantly smoking against the wall in the typical pose of a spook at ease. The Frenchman nodded to Sniper and lazily leaned upright, accompanying him to the table. 

“So, wot’s the matter?” Sniper muttered to Spy.

“You should hear it from her, mon ami [1],” the Frenchman replied. 

Sniper wasn’t surprised that Spy already knew something. When Spy was around, the smoking gun competed with the smoking cigarette.

“Scout, please- this is not the time.” Miss Pauling attempted to interrupt Scout. “Scout! Stop. Talking.” Then, she turned to address the group. “Men, we have a problem.”

“Any problem becomes not one when enough enemies are killed! Sun Tzu said that!” Soldier barked, his helmet wobbling over his eyes. 

In the confused silence that followed, Miss Pauling shot an exasperated glance to Soldier. “Of course, Soldier. Getting back on topic, we have a serious issue. I’m sure that you will recall that business with the movie director?”

The men scowled as one, a sore subject for the RED Team. At first the annoying man’s questions had seemed innocent, interviews designed to set the locals at ease and improve public relations. Discovering that the Administrator had hired him specifically to collect blackmail and impress onto the men that they shouldn’t talk to anyone about their personal lives had come as a result of an unpleasant investigation. The fact that this information about their lives and the lives of their loved ones was now in the hands of their employer should they step out of line was simply the parting blow. Needless to say, that sort of underhanded scheming by their employer had certainly left an impression.

“Yeah, an’ wot about it?” Sniper growled, remembering the photos taken of his parents’ house.

Miss Pauling had done unspeakable acts in the name of her employer. She’d lied, killed, buried bodies, and filed the paperwork in the name of the Administrator. Underneath the combined hostile gaze of the men she didn’t exactly flinch, but she certainly looked uncomfortable.

Miss Pauling spoke slowly. “Well she has files on all of you, as you know. And of course we had to add the findings of that to your files, and well… there were copies.”

Heavy approached the table looming over Miss Pauling. Next to the mountain of a man she looked tiny, like a little porcelain doll. “What kind of copies?” he rumbled dangerously. 

She looked up at Heavy, and around to the rest of the men “The kind that stick around even if the Administrator is… no longer in charge. A back-up plan, ok?” She held up her hands. “It wasn’t my idea, and before you yell at me, remember that these are _copies.”_

The silence that followed was filled with the noise of men thinking furiously. A few of them seemed like they were about to start shouting at Miss Pauling, and thought better of it. After all, you never know when the Administrator would be listening. Spy ground out the stub of his cigarette on the ground forcefully, lighting another one. 

Miss Pauling took that as a sign to continue. “This morning at dawn I was supposed to meet a courier here-” she pointed to spot on the map spread out on the table “-and collect a copy of this information and move it to a new location.” She looked up at the men. “Something that important shouldn’t be left lying around.”

“And now ze intelligence is missing?” Spy cut in.

“Nobody was supposed to know that it existed!” Miss Pauling protested. “Nobody was supposed to know where it would be, and when it would be out in the open! Not even the courier knew what he was carrying! Somebody, and it wasn’t BLU, killed him and took the briefcase. _Somebody_ knew, and now we have to find it.”

“In zhe middle of zhe desert? Vhen zhey have a head start? How?” Medic asked skeptically.

Miss Pauling glanced at Sniper. “Well, I was hoping that Sniper would know.”

The collective group turned to look at Sniper, who was still reeling from the thought that someone knew who he was and what he had done, and most importantly where his parents were. He had amassed quite a collection of enemies back home in Australia, and he was sure that some of them would pay quite a lot for any information about him. Sure, they were wary of him, but fear only helped a man for so long. He hadn’t been home in a while, and that kind of thing makes rivals cocky, willing to risk a little if it meant removing some of the competition or settling a score. Shock turned to rage, and cooled just as rapidly as he started to calculate how best to kill whoever held the means to get to his family. If so much as a hair had been disturbed on either of his parents’ heads… 

Sniper nodded, his shades flashing. “Get me to the poor wanker’s body, an’ I’ll take it from there.” 

In any other group of men this might have just seemed like an empty boast, but his teammates knew what he was capable of. A bushman of Australia didn’t live long if he didn’t pick up some tricks, and Sniper was one of the best. Many a man had underestimated the Australian, inevitably leading to the same conclusion. If anyone could track someone across the Badlands of New Mexico, he could. The tension in the air didn’t so much relax as turn into a sense of purpose, with a healthy dose of urgency.

Miss Pauling smiled tightly. “I hope so, for all of us. Sniper, you have five minutes to pack. Meet me at my truck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] “my friend”
> 
> There will be many shoutouts to my favorite author, Terry Pratchett, over the course of this story. He was a stunning writer, and while I could never hope to compare to his genius, I do enjoy giving him the nod. “It was a good day for someone else to die” is a shout out to a battle cry from Feet of Clay.


	4. Not Quite Hollywood

The hard-baked earth crunched softly under Sniper’s boots as he and Miss Pauling wound their way through the scrub brush and cactus. A few hours in the sun hadn’t improved the corpse, and neither had the loving ministrations of the vultures.

Sniper crouched by corpse, holding a hand under his nose. “And this is how ya found him?”

“Roughly. I couldn’t do much about the birds.” The vultures had retreated a little distance away, and the ones still on the ground were glaring at them balefully.

“Was there a bullet casing lying around?”

Miss Pauling sighed. “No.”

“Then either our killer is a really tidy bloke, or he’s a professional.” He took his wide brimmed hat off, tilted his head to the side, and looked at the grisly blood splatter that was once part of a man’s head, silent for a minute.

“What size are yer shoes?” Sniper asked suddenly.

Miss Pauling started. “What kind of question is that?”

Sniper stood up and walked to the cadaver’s feet, measuring it with his hands. He eyed what was left of the man, guessing his weight. He looked at Miss Pauling, and with no sense of self preservation, guessed hers as well.

“Well Miss Pauling,” he said patiently, “I’m tryin’ ta figure out who these footprints belong to so I can see where our mate is headed to.”

Miss Pauling extended her boot to show him the heel. “Six.”

Sniper grunted assent and walked around the corpse in a slow circle, crouching down and looking outward as he paused, tilting his head. He would walk a few steps, crouch, then tilt his head and look outwards in a slow sweeping motion, then stand up again. This took several minutes, during which time Miss Pauling started to wonder if the heat was getting to the man. She parked as close as she could, but they still had to walk a couple of miles to get back to the corpse. The sun didn’t discriminate as it scorched every inch of the barren landscape, and she was certainly feeling its effects.

Sniper stopped three-quarters of the way from where he started and straightened back up, taking a few steps to the east.

Sniper turned back to her, his face impassive. “Is a road off this way?”

Miss Pauling unrolled the map she was carrying, and checked it. “Yes. It’s about seven miles away.”

He pulled out the length of wood he brought with him from the base, laying it down on the dusty ground. He considered it for a moment, then pulled out his kukri and cut a notch into it, about two and a half feet long. Then Sniper sheathed his kukri on his belt, stood up, licked a finger, and held it up into the air. Something about this dissatisfied him, and he scowled. He took a step forward, crouched, and measured a faint depression in the dirt with his hands. For all Miss Pauling could tell, the wind had just moved a little dust around.

“We’re lookin’ for a bloke, average height, medium build, traveled east a couple of hours ago,” Sniper said.

“How can you tell?” she asked.

Sniper gestured back to the corpse without turning around. “He’s too tall, an’ the feet are too big. Somebody a little smaller left back this way. Women walk a little differently than men, so it’s not you. Wind picked up about three hours ago, an’ there’s dust blown into these tracks. What exactly does this briefcase look like?”

Miss Pauling handed him a small box, with a cord and an earbud attached. It looked like a wristwatch on steroids, with a very small antenna array attached. “The briefcase is black with the TF Industries logo attached. This will pick it up when you are about 100 yards away. It’s worth more than you, so don’t lose it.”

Sniper shrugged and fastened it to his belt, threading the earpiece through his shirt and vest. Then he picked up his pack and put it on, placing his hat back on his head. He carried water, his Heatmaker sniper rifle, and a few other essentials which would mean that whoever caused him trouble would have a bad time. His RED uniform shirt had been exchanged for a drab tan, an earthen tone which would help him blend into the desert. When tracking humans, he needed any edge he could get.

“I’ll be off, then,” he said curtly.

Miss Pauling sighed. “Good luck, Sniper. Let us know what you find.”

He nodded to her and turned back to the east, walking a few measured paces. He scanned the desert floor, left to right, looking for signs of path deviation in the native flora. He crouched and placed the stick on the ground, confirmed the size of the walker’s stride, and stood back up. He took a few more steps, slowly and methodically following the trail.

Miss Pauling watched him for a few minutes, and then turned to walk the couple of miles back to her truck. She looked back occasionally at him, and his silhouette slowly started to blend into the landscape. After a while Sniper vanished from view, into the shimmering desert sands.

\-------------------------------------------------

Most people think that tracks read like a road, easily followed like footprints in wet sand. Oftentimes this is combined with an almost Hollywood assumption that whenever some evildoer goes trekking off across the wilds, the skilled and able hero will simply see the way that they went and go sprinting off to save the day and the love interest, not a hair out of place.

Unfortunately, these are both incorrect when applied to reality. Tracking is a slow and methodical search for signs of something amiss; a scuff here, a broken spiderweb there. Everything from the silence of wildlife, the angle in which the tracker looks at the ground, the height of the sun, the firmness of the terrain, and the weather all play into a subtle and complex melody that an expert tracker must know by heart. And even the most observant listener can miss parts of a song.

By noon, Sniper had lost the trail four times.

Cursing under his breath, he turned back to the last distinct footstep he had seen. Taking out his stick, he held it against the print to measure the distance of the next logical step made by his quarry. There was hardly any brush in the clearing, and the fickle wind picked up some grains of dust and scattered them merrily in the open space. He got down low and tilted his head again, using the position of his eyes to highlight the disparities in the terrain. Left and right, he scanned slowly. Then, he uttered an oath that his dear mum would have tanned his hide to hear.

He placed his stick on the last track in order to keep track of it, and started off with a sweep technique to see if he could find the trail again. He turned ninety degrees away from it and walked fifty yards, stopped and turned ninety degrees to his left, continued twenty five yards, turned again so he was parallel to his first turn, and walked back so he could “sweep” the clearing. He paced slowly, and after ten minutes finally picked up the trail again. This time he left his kukri in place as he went to retrieve the stick 60 yards away.

It was hot, miserable work, but the bushman felt almost happy. The hot sun on his back, the faint shadows of birds circling far above, and the shimmer of a mirage all reminded him of home. Sniper had never felt more alive than in a land where one false move could mean death, especially when said wilderness was trying to kill him. Away from the judgement and hyper masculinity of Australian cities, where his wiry frame and lack of a mustache marked him as an outcast, he was just a man with a weapon. He tracked both beast and man, and often his human prey sought to lose him in the wilderness. The last thing that every one of them remembered before the eternal night was Sniper’s bullet in their skull. He always found it easier to bring bounties in dead. After so long on the battlefield, he welcomed this change of pace. No loudmouths barging in on him, no sudden explosions, just a man and his prey.

It seemed that the man he tracked was still unaware of Sniper’s pursuit, a fact that Sniper was extremely grateful for. There were all sorts of nasty tricks someone could use to throw off an enemy tracker. Doubling back, walking backwards, false trails, brushing tracks, walking with a different gait or in a different way to avoid leaving a heel or toe print, walking in animal tracks... the possibilities were only limited to the creativity of the fugitive. Heavens knew that he’d used quite a few techniques himself when he’d been outgunned.

Once the prey knew it was being hunted, anything could happen. In a country like Australia competition for jobs and bounties could be a cut throat business, which was certainly not a metaphor.  Once, one of Sniper’s rivals had overstepped far beyond the bounds of honor and decided that loved ones could be hunted as fair game, as a warning to the competition. One bullet was all it took, and Sniper was helpless to watch as a close friend bled out in his arms. What followed was the most intense game of cat and mouse Sniper had ever experienced, with both men striving to become the hunter and avoid being the hunted.

Blinded by rage and shattered by grief, his lack of focus almost cost him his life several times. One man would track the other, and each constantly tried to turn the tables to their advantage and kill the other man. In the end however it was the other man who was violently killed, and that was what mattered the most in Sniper’s search for revenge. Quiet word spread quickly, and very soon nobody wanted anything to do with the bushman. Though the pain had faded with time, he still missed her.

There were always mafia contracts if you really needed work, but getting involved in one of those viper nests was definitely bad for your health. A smart bounty hunter steered clear of jobs involving mafia members. He’d seen plenty of mates off the wrong guy and be forced into working as a hitman in exchange for protection. They didn’t last long, but in this business, who did?  It was much better to stay an independent contractor.

Sweat dripped down his neck in the hot sun. The animals in the area had long departed for cooler places, and even the insects were subdued. A mirage in the distance shimmered and hissed, whispering praise and contempt to the bushman for acts that had been and will be committed. He ignored this and kept going, slowly progressing in the lengthening shadows.

A few hours later he lost the trail again. The scrub was disappearing, withdrawing from the cracked earth ahead. In the past he had been able to pick up the trail from subtle signs in the bushes, a broken branch here, depressed leaves there. Out in the open all he had was tracks in the sand, a measurement of gait, and displaced gravel. He placed down his stick again and swept the area slowly, scanning the terrain. To his frustration, nothing appeared.

The faster of the techniques having failed, Sniper moved onto the next method of finding the next prints. He returned to the last visible footprint and started pacing in a slowly widening circle, centered on the tracks. In ever increasing circles he traveled, methodically pausing and scanning the ground. This took some time, and the sun was noticeably lower in the sky before he picked up the trail again some distance away.

The tracks seemed to be getting easier to find, as if the man was hurrying now. Sniper noted the longer stride and deeper toe prints, and picked up the pace. He was by no means moving quickly, but the visibility of the trail meant that he no longer had to pause. If the man was moving faster, he was making mistakes, focusing on the finish line. Up ahead Sniper could see the faint silvery outline of a road, shimmering in the late afternoon heat. He smirked in satisfaction.

It was an old road at best, the pavement cracked and bleached from years in the unforgiving desert sun. The tracks led right to it, so he had to assume that this man had driven away. He started scanning the road, looking for signs of prints on the other side, or some other indicator of his quarry’s passage. A pinprick of white caught his attention, barely visible against the faded asphalt. He put down his pack and knelt down to look at it, picking it up. It was a cigarette butt. It lacked signs of weathering or predawn moisture damage, so he knew that it was recent. Nearby a few grains of sand had skittered onto the road, ending near an oil stain. It was still slightly damp, and left drips traveling to the north. He put the cigarette butt in his pocket and shouldered his pack, following the dark patches.

The sun was just starting to set when he saw a town in the distance, at the end of the long road. It wasn’t much of a town, just a main road and some houses on a few side streets, but it had lights and maybe even a payphone. By the time he reached it and the bar on its tiny main street, the sun had completed its journey below the horizon. The sign outside the building proclaimed “Red Light Bar” in peeling, faded letters. Sniper paused for a moment outside, and then walked in.

The interior of the bar was smoky and warm, dimly lit by a few overhead lights by the poker table and the bar. A few people were already hunched over their drinks, staring off into the distance with the air that said that they had already been here a while, and would be here until they died. Some of them glared at him out of the corners of their eyes resentfully, wary of the newcomer. Tinny music quietly crackled in the speakers, not so much adding to the ambient noise as highlighting the lack thereof.

Having frequented many bars over many long years, Sniper ran a practiced eye over the room. No matter where he went he was never exactly welcomed, but he got the sense from this crowd that they wouldn’t immediately attempt to beat the snot out of him as soon as he spoke. This was good; he liked his blood on the inside whenever possible. Having a head start towards the door meant a lot when a lot of people were out to kill you.

Sniper walked up to the counter and sat down on a stool well-polished by long years of constant service. The bartender glanced at him and plunked the glass he was cleaning down with more force than was necessary before coming over, the sound sharp in the hushed whispers rising behind Sniper.

“You want something, stranger?” the bartender asked.

Sniper leaned forward. “A beer,” then he lowered his voice, “an’ a little information, paid up front.”

The bartender scowled at him for a minute, turned away, and returned with a bottle of beer. He cracked it open and slid it towards the bushman. Then he picked up a glass and started to polish the grime.

“We don’t see many people out this way.” he said conversationally. “You lookin’ to cause trouble? We got enough as it is, so push off to some other town or see the sheriff.”

Sniper slid his hand across the bar to the man, and left a fifty dollar bill behind before returning to his drink, which was lukewarm. The money was snatched up with a speed that would have left a rattlesnake in the dust.

“And what brings you to Red Signal, stranger?” the man said, voice low.

He knew how the game was played, and this was just another piece of the script that apparently all bartenders read off of. “I’m lookin’ for a car, passin’ this way from the south.”

The bartender shrugged slightly, his face noncommittal as he picked up a glass to polish. “Cars pass by here all the time. I didn’t see one too special lately, and I didn’t see one today.”

Sniper sipped at the beer “Is there a road that leads outta here? One to a place with an airport?”

The man shrugged. “Well ya know, I can’t seem to recall. Maybe you could help me remember.”

This was his cue; now that he had bought into the game, he had to pay to play. Sniper passed another bill over the counter, which disappeared with the same speed as the last.

“Now that you mention it, there’s a city about forty miles from here,” he replied. “Gravel City, got a little airport. It’s the only real road back to civilization around here; down south it just empties out into the desert. I see plenty of men in here, so maybe you could help me remember the one you’re lookin’ for.”

Sniper got up and tossed a few dollars down for the beer. He sensed that this was as good as he was going to get. Any more time spent here, and the bartender might make something up to keep the cash flowing. “Nah, I’m good. That seems to be about it. Thanks, mate.”

\---------------------------------------------

 

“-some little town called Red Signal, and it’s a cold trail here, so I’ll be movin’ on. Seems our bloke smokes Viceroy Cigarettes, but that’s all I’ve seen so far.”

“And you’re sure it’s our target?” Miss Pauling asked.

A group of motorcycles roared down the road and parked outside of the bar where Sniper stood at a payphone. The men dressed in black leathers, hooting and yelling as they piled into the bar. One of them pushed past Sniper as they entered. He leaned out of the way and covered the phone as they passed, unwilling to start a fight while Miss Pauling could hear it. Besides, there were seven of them, and he certainly wasn’t being paid enough to have a go at them. There was the sound of banging inside, the smashing of glass, and raucous laughter.

“Sure as sunrise. The only road outta here is up to Gravel City about forty miles away. It’s got an airport an’ access to freeways, an’ if I was our thief I’d be makin’ myself scarce real fast. I’ll be headin’ on that way.”

“Sniper, how are you going to get there on foot?” There was the sound of a hacksaw from the other end. “I can be in Red Signal in a few hours, just give me some time to bury a few loose ends over here.”

Sniper sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “He could be anywhere by then.”

There were a few thumping sounds. “Well I’m open to suggestions, Sniper!”

Sniper glanced at motorcycles and grunted thoughtfully. Why not? He’d done it plenty of times as a kid. “I think I’ve got an idea for a ride.”

“Ok. Fine.” Miss Pauling replied, exasperated. “Just don’t draw attention to yourself, will you? And call me when-”

Sniper hung up. Five minutes later a motorcycle growled to life, and the hunt continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are going to be some chapters with a lot of background information going on. This is one of them. I pride myself on doing the research needed to write sensible plots, so a lot of time and effort goes into the details. Here’s a few of the highlights.
> 
> Miss Pauling is about 5'4" according to consensus, and that puts her shoe size anywhere from 6-8. This can also very by type of shoe, so I chose 6 with a large boot sole. That also happens to be my shoe size. I’d like to think that it’s a sturdy leather boot with steel toe caps, the kind that rises to mid-calf.
> 
> A few years ago I acquired an old military handbook I found in the free section of one of my college building’s hallway bookshelf. It’s got all sorts of stuff ranging from tracking, to first aid, to proper camouflage, to enemy terrain tips, to nuclear/biological/chemical attacks, to how to properly use a claymore. Fun for the whole family. It was printed in 1984, but if you want to find it online it’s called Combat Skills of the Soldier (FM 21-75).  
> Other sources for tracking include (http://www.outdoorchannel.com/article.aspx?id=22855 ) and (http://wildernessarena.com/skills/tracking-and-signs/how-to-track-person-in-wild-avoid-being-tracked-by-human-being)
> 
> Anyways, Sniper tilts his head in a technique called _sideheading_ to use the differing distances his eyes see the ridges and shadows the ground makes a little better. An important part of tracking is to move slowly and quietly, so as to not alert wildlife to your presence (and by inference, your target), and so that you don’t miss signs. 
> 
> Footprints can show the direction and rate of movement, the number of people, whether or not people are carrying things, the gender, and whether they know if they’re being followed. In this case, the prints are deep and the pace is long but the toe prints are not deeper than the heel prints, showing that while he is moving somewhat quickly, he is not running. Carrying a heavy load would have made the prints short and wide. Women tend to walk pigeon toed rather than straight, and the stride is smaller. In this way, Sniper can figure out the general size, weight, and fitness of his quarry.
> 
> Sniper is using something known as a **key set**. Essentially, you find a set of prints that’s pretty clear (usually the last person in a group) and cut a stick to the length of the stride, notching it to show the print width at the widest part of the sole. If the trail becomes worn or lost, it can give you an idea of how far the next step might be.
> 
> Apparently the US border patrol has a Native American law enforcement group known as the Shadow Wolves that tracks smugglers from Mexico across the Sonoran Desert. That’s badass. They dress to blend in with the desert, which is why Sniper is not wearing his bright red “Over Here, Morons!”™ mercenary uniform shirt.
> 
> When the trail is completely lost, there are a couple of methods Sniper uses to find the trail. The first is called Cross-Grain (or the Sweep Method), in which you walk in a sort of grid of left-forward-right-forward until you see something, all the while looking for prints.
> 
> The second is a lot more time consuming and intensive, where you start at the point of the last visible print and walk around it in ever widening circles. This method can require walking a mile or more of circle, so it’s more of a last resort.  
> Sniper’s lost friend is a reference to the first ever story I co-wrote for TF2 with Eliza2506 (shye-bird). It was a lot of fun, but I cringe a little going back to look at it. I’ve improved a lot since then. It’s a bit of closure of sorts, coming full circle.
> 
> Red Signal is a TF2 spin on a real life New Mexico small town called White Signal. Gravel City is a spin on Silver City. They just fit well, and it made a good mental picture.


	5. Red Light

The landscape sped past, faded white lines on asphalt flashing by the front tire of the motorcycle. Besides an old ghost town, which was barely a dark smudge on the landscape, he hadn’t seen signs of another soul in miles. Sniper clamped his hat between his knees and accelerated.

The road was empty, and the only sounds were the roar of the engine and the whistling wind in his ears. The dim headlight illuminated the road ahead, with an empty landscape lit by faint blue stars in a navy sky. Sniper liked nights like these, sitting out on the roof of whatever base they were stationed at. There was something beautiful about the cold and distant stars against the desert. Many times when he was a kid he’d climb out onto the porch roof outside of his window and just stare at the stars above. 

Nowadays he sometimes did it from the roof of his camper van. He wished he had been able to take it with him on this particular mission, but in this case speed and maneuverability were essential. That van was his home away from home in this private war.

While it left an acidic taste in his mouth to think that the Administrator knew everything about him and where his parents were, it was true that in this case the devil he knew was far better than the one he didn’t. Not only did he have to worry about the Administrator deciding whether his behavior was acceptable or not, and sending a “message” through his parents as a result, he now had to worry about whoever else knew. As soon as this was settled, one way or another, he’d be calling to make sure that they were ok, tell them that he loved them. In this business there were few that he could afford to be close to, but you didn’t just cut out on your mum and dad.

The best case scenario for the mission was that he’d find it in the city, or at least a good indication of who had it. A name, a place, or a destination would be best. He’d pull out the tracker and start on the best lit streets, working his way outwards to the slums, and then as a last resort to the suburbs, if there were any. Then he’d move on to the airport. It might be tricky walking around in there with his gun in his bag, but he’d manage like he always did.

The mystery of who was behind all of this itched in the back of his mind, like a spider scritching on glass. He couldn’t totally discount the possibility that this was another of the Administrator’s games, but if it was that, then either Miss Pauling was left out of the loop, or she was a bloody[1] good actor.

He could see the distant glow of the city now, bright streetlights and buildings a pinprick in the ocean of darkness that enveloped the motorcycle and its rider. He shifted into higher gear and accelerated, wind whipping in his hair.

Whoever it was, they had to have known exactly what they were going after. He couldn’t discount the possibility that the BLUs were up to something, but it was hard for him to imagine the other team being in the position to do that, or that they’d be that stupid. Pissing off Miss Pauling was about on the same scale of suicide as walking out into the open on a battlefield. Given how often he saw the enemy in his scope, he wouldn’t be exactly surprised. But no, it had to be someone who could crack the Administrator’s security, which made Fort Knox look like a children’s toy box. It had to be someone powerful.

The city slowly grew closer, the mountains in background dark against the moon rising just above the horizon. It should have been something dramatic, like a crescent moon or a half moon, but it was just a waning gibbous. That just goes to show that you can’t have it all.

Gravel City turned out to be a small city, all storefronts and streetlights when Sniper arrived. He ditched the bike on a side street; the possibility of the local police getting a call about a stolen motorcycle was a complication that he didn’t want to deal with. If he really needed to drive again he could just go back for it, but he guessed that he wouldn’t be able to hear the tracker over the hum of the engine. He put the tracking device’s earbud in, and set off on foot.

The streets were quiet, passersby becoming scarcer when he left the main ones. This suited him fine. A call to the police for any reason, especially about a strange, dirty, and sweaty man walking the nicer streets at night would have been a bugger[2] to deal with. Cars still drove by with regularity, but foot traffic was far and few between under the spaced out streetlights. He figured that if the tracker could pick up a signal from 100 yards away that he could walk between most streets and pick up anything on either side. Patiently, he kept walking, and the moon slowly rose higher in the sky.

It must have been a few hours later that he heard the first blip. It was as short of a sound as a pebble dropping into a storm grate, but the little chirp in his ear made him freeze. He looked around. No one was visible, the streets were quiet beside the odd passing car, and the side alley next to him was a dead end. He moved forwards and heard another blip, and then another in rapid succession. Sniper took a deep breath and continued moving, following the sound that meant the safety of his loved ones.

A door opened down the street, and Sniper drew into a shadow between the lamplights. A figure walked out of an office front, shrouded in their own pool of darkness. They started walking down the street towards a car, and Sniper crept closer. The individual passed by a street light, and Sniper caught a glimpse of a briefcase, silhouetted against the shadows. He felt a thrill of adrenaline, and willed his heart to beat quietly as he followed. The distant figure changed course and started to head for the street, where a running car waited.

Realizing that the car was about to leave as soon as the briefcase was inside, Sniper started running. He had to catch a glimpse of the car, a plate number, a driver, _something_ before it drove away. He sprinted down the road and across streets, throwing caution to the wind as the man- now he could see that it was a man- opened the door and stepped inside. 

To his left there was a sudden flash of light, the screeching of tires on a car going way too fast. A loud horn started to wail. Before he had time to react, he collided with the car hood and his feet were knocked out from under him. His legs snapped as he was sent into the air in a millisecond. His head slammed into the driver’s windshield, crushing the glass as momentum carried him over the roof. Sniper’s body was violently thrown into a light pole chest first, where it slid down to the pavement, and was still. The car screeched and ran off the road, colliding with a building. After a few minutes someone shakily got out, stumbling towards the prone man. Silence descended. A light went on in a building across the street, and someone dialed the police. 

Farther down the street, as if unaware of the calamity that had just occurred, a car shifted into gear and drove away.

\-----------------------------------------------------

_ Badlands _

_ RED Base _

 

The call came just as she had finished cleaning the blood off of her hands. It had not been a good night. She had spent the day looking for leaks in the company, and so far all she had found was a few amateur information leakers, a few grainy photos of blurry and unintelligible documents, and not a single sign of contact to anyone outside. They claimed that they were looking to sell something to the government, not realizing of course that the Administrator had her talons sunk deep into pretty much all of them. Miss Pauling had believed them in the end, but some things could be forgiven and some things required a shallow grave and quick lime. The Administrator did not forgive.

“I’m looking for an Edith? Is this an Edith Pauling?” A man’s voice was on the line.

“Yes, that’s me. Who is this?” she said when the landline phone had been handed to her by a solemn Spy. She quickly remembered that it was about two in the morning and contrived to act like she was exhausted. It wasn’t hard.

“Ma’am, this is Clark from Gravel Regional Hospital. Your brother Mick has been in a car accident, and you are listed as his next of kin. Would it be possible for you to come and fill out paperwork in the morning? He doesn’t appear to have any medical plans or means of payment.”

Her heart turned to ice and her breath caught in her throat. Next of kin. Of course that had been just another precaution, but it was one she’d hoped they would never use. You didn’t have to be still breathing to be taken to a hospital; they needed a medical examination to pronounce you dead. She clutched the phone and willed herself to breathe. “He’s alive?” she whispered.

“Yes ma’am he’s alive, but unconscious at the moment. The police said he ran out in front of a drunk driver on the corner of Black Street and North Silver. There is one other thing, ma’am.” Clark petered off, as if unwilling to continue.

“Yes?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice under control as the worst case scenarios played out in her mind. How many people would she have to bribe to clean this up? How many more people would she have to kill?

“Well the police would like to have a few words with him once he comes round. If he has a lawyer, you should probably get in touch with them.”  

Realizing that some shock was probably expected of her, she allowed herself to take a shaky breath into the phone. “Ok. Of course. I’ll be there in the morning. Thank you. Goodbye.” She hung up.

She looked to Spy, who had been patiently waiting by the doorway. She just _knew_ that Sniper had been close to finding something, close enough that this ill-timed catastrophe must have been a result of it. It had to have been.

“Spy, I need you to get to the corner of Black Street and North Silver in Gravel City. Now.”

Spy took a step forward, concerned. “Is something wrong, Miss Pauling?”

“Sniper was injured,” she replied, trying to quell her anxiety. “He must have been so _close_ to something, but that something is probably at the corner of Black Street and North Silver. We’re on the right track, but I have to go deal with the police at the hospital. They must have found his weapons or the tracking device.”

“Do you want me to retrieve it on the way?” Spy asked.

“No, I have an extra you can use. It doesn’t have headphones, so use it sparingly.” She reached into her bag and handed him a small device. “Sniper will be fine. I can collect him with Medic in the morning.”

“Are you sure, Miss Pauling? Sniper is alone-”

“Are you questioning me, Spy?” Miss Pauling snapped. 

Spy held his hands up placatingly. “Non[3], I am not,” he replied calmly. “I will contact you when I ‘ave found somezhing.” He collected the tracking device and left, footsteps fading away in the hall. 

Miss Pauling sat down and rubbed at her burning eyes. She was starting to contemplate the possibility that the information was lost, that something terrible would happen as a result. Someone was going to use this to hurt the men, or hurt the Administrator somehow, and the world would come crashing down around her. She realized that this was an overtired mind thinking, and resolved to find a couch she could sleep on for a few hours. 

She’d head out in the morning.

\------------------------------------------------

_ Gravel City _

 

Dawn wouldn’t come for another hour, and the halls of the hospital were empty. A bored floor nurse sat and worked on a crossword, the scratching of her pen under the dim desk light the only sound in the wing. The door to Room 242 opened and closed quietly, an action that went unnoticed by the woman. 

Spy gently eased the door lock back into position and stepped around the hanging privacy curtain placed up by the door. Sniper lay on a bed against the wall, connected to an IV. A small lamp on the bed stand nearby produced weak light. Spy pulled the chair next to the bed and sat down, resting his forearms on his knees as he looked to his friend. 

Sniper was seriously injured, that much Spy could tell. Bandages wrapped his torso, and the outline of yet more could be seen underneath the thin blanket over the man. His breathing was steady but shallow, the right side of his head patched over with a bandage.

With the Medic’s medigun, it had been some time since any of the team stayed injured for longer than a few hours, in which case either Respawn picked them up as they died, or Medic finally found them. He hoped that Sniper couldn’t feel pain; too many times had Spy felt the agony of shattered legs and smashed ribs. It would be a while before any true relief could come.

Spy wasn’t able to find Sniper’s belongings, which he suspected were locked away in an office somewhere until the police saw fit to move them or Miss Pauling came to collect them. The lock on his hospital room was most likely meant to keep Sniper in, but even an idiot could see that he wasn’t going anywhere fast with broken legs and ribs. For all extents and purposes, Sniper was out of commission until Medic could heal him. 

He sighed. “What have you done to yourself, hmm? A city is no place for you,” Spy said softly. “Let’s hope you can remember something when Miss Pauling comes to retrieve you. I will see you soon, mon ami[4].”

He stood up, drew the blanket further up to Sniper’s chest, and adjusted the pillow. Spy took one last look at the unconscious man.

“Never send a bushman to do a spy’s job,” Spy murmured, and left. 

His passage to the streets beyond was just as unnoticed as his entrance. The darkest hour is just before dawn, and one more shadow joined the rest in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Australia’s most prominent and frequently spoken adjective. Similar to "very".  
> [2] Another colorful word of the Australian dialect meaning difficult, strenuous, irritating. e.g.  
> [3] French: “No”  
> [4] French: “my friend”
> 
> I have to say that this is my favorite chapter of the whole story. I was just idly going through deviantart, looking at Bielek’s art while listening to Car Crash by Three Days Grace, and everything clicked into place. At that moment, this chapter was born. Of course, you can’t start at a scene like this, or even end in a place like this, so I couldn’t just write that one section. While the rest of the story had its moments, I still love coming back to read the section where Sniper walks around in the city, and Spy’s visit thereafter.
> 
> The sound track for Sniper’s nighttime ride is Turn the Page, by Bob Seger, and Ghost Rider by Rush. I recommend listening to Car Crash while reading Sniper’s walk through the city. For Spy’s visit, I recommend Ow, by Steven Moccio.
> 
> Conveniently, instead of having to look up typical car crash injuries (which goes under #weirdthingsI’veresearched) and have yet more suspicious stuff on my browser history, I already had a great one from What If, by Randall Munroe:
> 
> _“While researching impact speeds for this answer, I came across a discussion on the Straight Dope Message Board about survivable impacts. One poster compared a fall from a height to being hit by a bus. Another user, a medical examiner, replied that this was a bad comparison:_   
>  _‘When hit by a car, the vast majority of people are not run over; they are run under. The lower legs break, sending them into the air. They usually strike the hood of the car, often with the back of their head impacting the windshield, “starring” the windshield, possibly leaving a few hairs in the glass. They then go over the top of the car. They are still alive, although with broken legs, maybe head pain from the nonfatal windshield impact. They die when the hit the ground. They die from head injury.’_   
>  _The lesson: don’t mess with medical examiners. They’re apparently pretty hardcore.” (What If, 152)_
> 
> I decided to have him hit the light pole after, in order to give him the rib injury seen in the original photo I saw. (bielek.deviantart.com/art/TF2-Spy-and-Sniper-353913415) In the original art it’s RED Spy and BLU Sniper, but I had to finagle them onto one team for the story’s sake. You can’t tell what color they are in the lighting of the art, so it still kinda works.
> 
> The Strine (Australian slang) translations in this story are taken from: (australianslang.org)
> 
> I’ve noticed a trend in my stories that sooner or later, someone goes unconscious as a result of an injury. It’s a bit cliché, but TF2 is canonically very violent. Probably some psychologist out there could explain why I enjoy seeing characters I like suffering, in some kind of pain, or unconscious, I don’t know. To any out there reading this, what’s your take?
> 
> The streets used here are based off of real streets in Silver City; Black Street and North Cooper.
> 
> Room 242 used to be my college residence hall room number in senior year.
> 
> A long time ago I read a series called The Morbid, Macabre, and Myriad Adventures of Miss Edith Amelia Pauling, by PreludeInZ (archiveofourown). They were a stunning writer, and ever since then I have been unable to headcanon Miss Pauling’s first name as anything other than Edith. I recommend that you check it out: (archiveofourown.org/series/170291)


	6. An Apple A Day

At nine in the morning, Miss Pauling strode through the hospital doors with Medic in tow. Her black heels echoed on the dingy tile, and she carried a briefcase with a straight back and gleaming eye. Her hair was pulled back, her purple blouse was tucked into her pencil skirt, and saying that she looked ready to kill wasn’t an idle description.

Medic, for his part, had traded in his lab coat for a vest, tie, and slacks. His job was to assist in getting Sniper out by any means, and towards this goal he had prepared a very special set of needles stored in a small box in his bag. Taking the Medigun mixture and charging it for intravenous use was time consuming, labor intensive, and difficult, but it could make a man inches away from death walk off the battlefield.

Miss Pauling swept past the receptionist’s desk, giving a curt nod in the direction of the woman sitting behind it. She carried on with the air of a lady who wouldn’t be stopped all the way to the Medical Director’s office, where she rapped on the door sharply.

Miss Pauling whispered to Medic, “Remember what we rehearsed. Your name is Josef Vogel until we leave.”

Medic looked down to Miss Pauling, who barely came up to his shoulder. “Yes, fraulein.” He replied quietly

The door opened to an older man in a business suit, whose expression said that whoever bothered him would come out of it a great deal poorer. His expression rapidly shifted to a pleasant outward demeanor, such as someone wore when they planned on making someone give them a lot of money.

“Do you have an appointment?” The man asked.

“My name is Miss Pauling, and I was contacted concerning my brother, who was admitted last night.”

“Ah, yes.” He smiled in what probably would look sympathetic on someone who didn’t run a for-profit hospital. “You would be the Edith that we reached out to, then? Come in.”

They walked into his richly furnished office and sat down on plush chairs. The back wall was covered in bookshelves with stern plain covers and long words on the spines, possibly to intimidate or inspire awe in any visitors. He closed the door and sat down facing them, hands folded behind a nameplate that read: W. Dreyer, Medical Director.

“Now, Edith-”

“You may call me Miss Pauling,” she interrupted him.

“Miss Pauling then,” Dreyer said patronizingly. “Well, not only does your brother have expensive medical bills, bills that require paying, as soon as he wakes the police are going to arrest him. I’m told that they have quite a few questions for him, and besides that fact that I am told that he was found with an unregistered gun and silencer. He’s not going anywhere for a while. So while we wait for him to wake, I have some paperwork you need to sign. Why don’t you let me speak with your lawyer?” He pushed a sheath of paperwork at her and winked at Medic in collusion. She glanced at the paperwork without touching it, and spotted the room that Sniper was being held in.

Medic glanced to Miss Pauling warily, as if wondering how long the man had to live.

Miss Pauling took a deep breath, pulled out a business card, and held it out to Dreyer. “You must not have had much experience in speaking with lawyers, then. This is my associate. I am Mick’s legal counsel, here as his representative, and I thought it would be best to meet with you before we began litigation against you in regards to the treatment of my client.”

He took the card looked and down at it warily. It was a simple and stark, none of the flash and theatrics associated with an amateur lawyer’s card. This is who I am, it seemed to say. I don’t need cheap parlor tricks to strip you of everything you own.

“Mr. Dreyer, I don’t think you fully comprehend the purpose and urgency of this visit,” she said. “We have reason to believe that this facility has mistreated my client. On my way in here I witnessed at least two health violations, as well as a gross lack of security. There are a whole slew of other things I could sue you on based on the disparities between what your hospital advertises and how it presents itself, some of which I’m certain that a State Health Inspector would be highly interested in on the grounds of sanitation, so I would appreciate it if you would start to take this seriously.”

He gaped at her as she continued. “Furthermore, there has been no warrant issued for my client nor is there probable cause for any supposed crime other than the lawful possession of a weapon for which there is paperwork.” She opened her briefcase and placed a photocopy of a forged permit on the desk. “Which means that you cannot lawfully keep him here, and should the police decide that they have questions for him then they can contact me.”

Miss Pauling almost felt sorry for him, but she saw the signs of a man used to pushing others around, especially women, and of a man who enjoying putting people in their place. She felt it was high time someone put him in his.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Dreyer spluttered. “We treat all of our patients with kindness and respect in our sanitary facilities, and your brother is no exception. He can’t even walk! How is he going to leave?”

Miss Pauling felt a thrill of excitement at the power she wielded in the conversation. “Patients are transferred between hospitals daily. We will be taking him off of the premises today, as well as all of his belongings, or we will be filing a suit regarding unlawful detainment by the end of the day. I believe that he is in Room 242? My associate will now be going to my client’s room in order to handle the details of his release with the nurse, and to ascertain the quality of his care.”

At her subtle command, Medic got up and nodded to Dreyer, who seemed at a loss for words, and walked out. Miss Pauling smiled sweetly at him, pleased at the turn of events.

“And now that we are on the same level, Mr. Dreyer, I do believe that we can come to some sort of agreement. Care to discuss?”

 

\------------------------------------------------

Medic adjusted his tie as he walked through the halls, trying to figure out where the verdammt[1] Room 242 was. So far he’d found the cafeteria, the gift shop, and the bathrooms. He did find a few other treasures in the hospital however; the morgue had been interesting, but the operating theater was by far the best. He was told by other spectators that the patient was undergoing intestinal obstruction repair. Medic had approved of the surgeon’s methods up until the point when the doctor stopped to ask the anesthetist to increase the dose. Getting it done quickly and cleaning up later was something that Medic had always prided himself on.

Of course, when he mentioned this to the fellow observers some of them started asking silly questions like, “Who are you?” and, “How did you get in here?” at which point he mentioned something about being late for a meeting and left.

He knew that this was an important mission, and that retrieving Sniper was essential, but of course he had to give Miss Pauling some time to talk to that dummkopf[2] in the office. Yes, he reasoned, expecting him to run straight to the room was like expecting a group of frauleins[3] in a mall to not browse the stores. He snagged a stethoscope from a cart as he passed, slinging it over his shoulders and rolling them, feeling their familiar weight around his neck.

After a few minutes he found the stairs and reached the second floor. Yellow fluorescent lights buzzed in the ceiling of the hall, which was paneled with brown wainscoting and an eye watering yellow paint on the upper half. Medic walked across dull linoleum past the nurse’s desk. In the entire time that he’d been wandering the hospital he hadn’t been stopped; he suspected the fact that he was dressed in a similar manner to the resident doctors helped. He wasn’t complaining.

Medic had just passed Room 211 when someone launched out of the doorway. “Hey! A-are you a doctor? Wait! I’ve been looking for a doctor forever. You gotta help me man, it’s spreading everywhere and it itches!”

He had to stop, didn’t he? It would be against the tenants of any doctor to refuse help to someone begging for relief, especially someone that possibly had a strange, interesting, and spreading affliction. His conscience reminded him that he didn’t exactly have a medical license anymore, but he shushed it and approached the man in the doorway.

“Vhat can I help you vith?” Medic asked.

If the young man noticed Medic’s obvious accent, he didn’t say so. Instead he immediately turned around and dropped his pants, mooning Medic. All across his back legs and cheeks was a swollen red rash with blisters filled with clear fluid.

“I went camping in Arizona this weekend and it just started up all of a sudden when I got home. You’re the first doctor I’ve seen in ages,” he said.

Fascinated, Medic pulled a pair of tweezers and a swab out of his bag. “Really? Und[4] does it spread vhere you scratch at? You may feel a twinge.”

The man flinched as Medic burst a blister and swabbed it with a Q-tip, eyeing the sores intently. “Yeah, but if I don’t scratch it, it’s agony! I gotta scratch!”

“I think zhat you have a bad case of poison ivy. Let me see here,” Medic pulled out a pen and paper from his pocket, and scribbled on it. “Zhis should help.”

The man stood up and took the piece of paper, grinning. “Aw, thanks a million!”

“Try to pay attention to vhat you use to vipe vith, ja?”

Medic walked off, smiling to himself. Yes, it was torn off scrap of a shopping list on which he had nearly illegibly scrawled a prescription for a high dose steroid cream, but the rash would certainly be going away. With any luck the pharmacy wouldn’t look too hard at his signature, and the man wouldn’t have to take a drug test any time soon.

The door to Room 242 was open, and as he peered around the medical screen in front of the door he saw two police officers. One was standing by Sniper and the other was standing by the doorway, who scrutinized Medic with the blank stare of a guard who hadn’t found a reason to care about him yet. Medic stopped outside and snagged the clipboard hanging outside of the door, studying it. While staring at it, he walked inside.

One of the officers stepped forward and blocked his path, a younger man with a nameplate that read “Officer Leavitt- Proudly serving since 1970”. “Sir, this room is off limits.”

Medic looked up from the medical notes at the man, sizing him up. He felt that telling the officers that they were going to take Sniper was a bad idea. He gave them a quizzical look. “For even doctors? Zhis man needs care.”

The officer standing by Sniper’s side, an older man with a badge reading “Corporal Wright- Proudly serving since 1947”, crossed his arms. “The nurse isn’t supposed to return for another two hours.”

Medic wished in that very moment that he was half the liar that Spy was. “To change zhe IV bag, perhaps. I am here to perform a medical evaluation on zhe patient.”

“You know, I find it hard to believe that a man already in a hospital would need an examination, much less one under suspicion of committing federal and state crimes. Why don’t you tell me your name and who sent you?” Officer Wright asked, his tone radiating suspicion.

Medic adjusted his glasses nervously. “I am called Vogel. Und, aheh, vell, I am actually here vith a lawyer und zhis man is her client, und I am here to see zhat he is taken care-

The handheld radio on the bedstand crackled to life. “Officer Wright, this is Dreyer, over.”

Officer Wright gave Medic a hard look, and turned to pick up the radio. “This is Wright, over.”

“There is a lawyer down here that would like to speak with one of you, and claims that her client has no reason to be arrested.” His voice crackled over the radio. “Can you come down?”

“We got a situation up here, sir.” Wright replied. “Some guy called Vogel wandered in here and is asking to examine the suspect. Are you going to call security, or do I have to deal with it, over?”

There was a pause on the other end of the radio. “No, he’s working with the lawyer, leave him be. Just, can somebody come down here and talk to this woman? She’s going to sue.”

Wright gave a heavy, drawn out sigh. “Fine. I’ll be down, out.” He turned to Officer Leavitt. “He can go look at the suspect, but if he so much as breathes wrong I want his ass on the floor.”

“Yes, sir.” Leavitt replied.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mr. Dreyer stared at her in disbelief for a few seconds as the door closed.

He then found his voice. “Now, you must realize that I can’t just accede to your demands-”

“Should you work with me, I can assure you that the outcome will be beneficial to you. My requests are very simple: the release of my client to the care of myself and my associate, and a stretcher board on which to transport him. We will reimburse you not only the costs of your care, but also for the stretcher, which will be paid to you from an offshore account. In exchange for this set of conditions, we will not sue you. I will advise you against refusing,” she replied.

The CEO’s eyes gleamed. With money from an untraceable offshore account, no one might notice if a little was skimmed off of the top. He went from considering a messy lawsuit dumped into his lap to a quite reasonable solution to the situation. There was just one catch.

“I’d be willing to work with you, but the two police upstairs still want to talk with him. I can’t get out of that,” he shrugged apologetically.

Miss Pauling considered this for a moment. There might be a possibility that Medic would have to deal with them in order to start healing Sniper, and there was nothing to be lost in trying to even the odds. “I’d like to speak to one of the officers, if you could call them.”

Dreyer picked up a handheld radio from his desk. “Officer Wright, this is Dreyer, over.”

There was no reply for a few seconds, and then a male voice came over the speaker. “This is Wright, over.”

Dreyer looked to Miss Pauling. “There is a lawyer down here that would like to speak with one of you, and claims that her client has no reason to be arrested. Can you come down?”

“We got a situation up here, sir. Some guy called Vogel wandered in here and is asking to examine the suspect. Are you going to call security, or do I have to deal with it, over?”

The hospital director looked to Miss Pauling, waiting for a response.

“That would be my associate, and he must stay with my client if we are to have a deal,” she gave him a look.

“No, he’s working with the lawyer, leave him be. Just, can somebody come down here and talk to this woman?” He pleaded. “She’s going to sue.”

The voice on the other end sighed. “Fine. I’ll be down, out.”

Miss Pauling stood up and smiled. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door, and it was opened as Officer Wright stepped through. He scowled at Miss Pauling.

Miss Pauling stood up. “My name is Miss Pauling, and I represent the man you are attempting to arrest. What charges are you going to bring?”

Corporal Wright looked at her in distaste. He disliked lawyers, especially young hotshots that thought the law could be bent with a few clever words. “He was concealed carrying an unregistered short barreled rifle and silencer, and he was on foot with a loaded weapon. That’s breaking both federal and state laws.”

Miss Pauling brightened. “Oh, but they are licensed to Mann Co, which my client works for. Here is the paperwork, a copy of which has been sent to your chief.”

Corporal Wright took the papers and leafed through them. She held her breath as he looked through everything, looking for signs that something was amiss. They were impressive forgeries, showing a picture of Sniper as a Mann Co employee and registration of the weapons under the company name. He humphed to himself and looked back up to her, irritated.

“He didn’t show up in our database,” Wright countered.

“But I bet that your database showed Mann Co, didn’t it?” Miss Pauling asked. “They sell _everything_.”

“Alright, so he’s off the hook for federal crimes, congratulations.” Wright said sardonically. “He still committed a crime against the state-”

“Which is punishable by up to six months in jail or a five-hundred dollar fine, yes.” Miss Pauling said. “I would be prepared to pay the fine here and now to you, with a little extra for the department.”

Officer Wright frowned, and crossed his arms. “Even if I wasn’t completely disgusted by your suggestion of bribery, I can’t do that. He has to go to court, and until then he stays here. He’s a flight risk.”

Miss Pauling mentally rolled her eyes. “Of course he is.” She sighed and turned to Dreyer. “I didn’t want to have to do this. May I use your phone?”

The man wordlessly gestured to it, feeling like he was in over his head, and she picked up the receiver. Miss Pauling dialed a number, and waited while it rang.

“Hello? Police Chief Franklin? This is Miss Pauling. Yes. Yes. I’m calling because it seems that one of my clients is going to be charged with being on foot with a loaded weapon. Yes, I am familiar with the due process. It’s unfortunate, really, because if it all goes to court everything will come out. Yes, everything. Yes, I know what that would mean for you.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then someone spoke, unintelligibly to the other room occupants. “Of course, yes, we planned on that. Thank you.” Miss Pauling put a hand over the receiver and turned to Corporal Wright who was standing warily, watching Pauling. “He wants to talk to you.”

The policeman took the receiver. “Yes, sir?” There was an outburst on the other line, and he flinched before an expression of rage crossed his face. “What do you mean, the bullet got thrown into the gun during the car accident? That’s not even possible!”

Miss Pauling heard a loud response from the other end, and the officer’s expression hardened as it continued. “Yes, sir. I understand completely, sir. We will drop the case, sir. I will radio in when we are about to leave, sir,” Wright responded, with each “sir” dropped like concrete blocks.

He hung the phone up forcefully and turned to Mr. Dreyer. “Get him out of here,” he growled.

Mr. Dreyer shrank under the corporal’s stony gaze and picked up the phone, dialing. “Nancy? Send a nurse over to Room 242 with a gurney, will you? Yes, I know. He’s being transferred. Don’t ask. Thank you, bye.”

He replaced the receiver and looked to Miss Pauling, who hid how pleased she was by pushing up her glasses in a nonchalant manner. “And we will be taking my client’s belongings with us as well,” she said.

“That’s evidence,” the corporal protested.

“If I’m not mistaken, your police chief just told you that no law was broken,” she smiled crisply at Officer Wright, and then turned to Mr. Dreyer. “I want everything, Mr. Dreyer. I will know if something is missing.”

He sighed and turned around, unlocking a metal filing cabinet against the wall. He pulled out a heavy cardboard box and handed it to Miss Pauling, who opened the lid briefly to check its contents. Inside were the cut and bloody remains of Sniper’s clothes, his weapons, and to her great relief, the tracking device. She smiled, and pulled out a checkbook. “It was a pleasure doing business with you. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

 

\-----------------------------------

Wright left the room and Medic crept forward, placing the bag on the bed stand as he examined the IV. The morphine dose was high, and it was part of a drip solution that a quick glance at the medical sheets told him was chock full of sedatives. It was as he suspected might happen; that Sniper was being held under until the police could come up with a reasonable enough case to arrest him. He set the clipboard down and moved to Sniper, disconnecting the IV needle from him.

“What are you doing?” Leavitt asked, suspicious.

“Do you see how shallow his breathing is?” Medic asked. “I vill defer to you on arrests, und you must trust me vhen it comes to medicine. I did get a medical license, you know.”

He started with a touch test, to see what bones could cause the most difficulty when moving Sniper. If the ribs moved at the wrong time they could puncture Sniper’s lungs. He was sure that the legs would be extremely painful, but their condition wouldn’t affect Sniper’s survival much, which was essential until they could get him back within range of the Respawn signal. He was confident in his abilities to re-break and set Sniper’s bones once they were in the van; it was just a matter of getting him there first.

After ten minutes, the radio hissed. “This is Dreyer, we’re going to be sending up a nurse soon, over.”

Leavitt reached for his responder. “What for, over?”

There was some scuffling as the radio was passed over to Officer Wright. “To assist Mr. Vogel. His transfer is approved, over.”

“We are releasing him, over?” Leavitt asked incredulously.

“Chief Franklin cleared it.” The officer practically spat this into the radio. “This is over our heads, over.”

Leavitt narrowed his eyes. “Understood, over.”

Medic kept still, his hands on Sniper’s ribs. He was under very strict instructions from Miss Pauling to not let anyone observe the effects of Medigun technology, and the officer would certainly notice something if Sniper was suddenly conscious and coherent. If Miss Pauling had just secured Sniper’s release, then he needed the serum to start working _now_ , before the nurse arrived. He opened his bag and palmed a syringe. He couldn’t kill anyone- Miss Pauling was very specific about that- but he had to do something.

“Oh? Vhat is zhis?” Medic said abruptly.

“Huh?” Leavitt said.

Medic leaned over Sniper. “Zhis is odd. Look.”

The officer approached Sniper and bent over as well. “I don’t see anyth-”

Medic jammed the needle into Officer Leavitt’s jugular vein and clamped a hand over the man’s mouth, pulling him away from Sniper as the man struggled to fight him off. The man tried to yell, but Medic was used to fighting on a battlefield every day, and was able to contain him without great difficulty. Officer Leavitt had youth, but Medic had experience, especially in restraining people who didn’t want to be examined. His movements quickly grew slower and uncoordinated as he tried to escape from Medic’s grasp. Leavitt’s legs buckled and Medic let him fall to the floor.

“You look tired.” Medic said cheerfully. “Maybe a nap vould help you. Here, let me help.”

“Nnnnnuhnnnn….”

“Shhh, you vill feel better after a nap. Just rest,” he said, and Leavitt closed his eyes.

He hauled the policeman up and dragged him to the chair, where he dumped him unceremoniously. He looked at the man for a moment, and rearranged him to make it appear as if the man had just sat down to sleep. The mixture he had just injected into the policeman should keep him down for about fifteen minutes, with foggy memories of what had happened right beforehand. That should be enough.

Medic quickly moved to his bag and opened the small box within. Inside of it were carefully prepared syringes filled to the brim with a dark red liquid, which shone in the light. He unclipped one and injected it between Sniper’s ribs. The intracardiac shot would be sent straight to his heart and take effect with little delay, starting to flush the sedatives and heal the surrounding tissues. He would be a poor doctor if he didn’t know exactly where his charges’ hearts were.

Already the color was starting to return to Sniper’s face. He gave the man another shot, this time to the carotid artery in his neck. Ten seconds later, Sniper’s eyelids started to flicker. His breathing shuddered and his eyes snapped half open, unfocused.

Medic leaned down to Sniper and spoke quietly in his ear. “Herr[5] Sniper, zhis is Medic. If you can hear me, just blink.”

Sniper didn’t move his head to look at Medic, and his eyes didn’t focus due to the heavy sedatives still in his system, but after a few seconds he blinked slowly.

“Ah, gut[6]. Herr Sniper, you vere hit by a car last night und taken to a hospital. Ve are here to collect you. Blink twice if you understand.”

Sniper blinked twice. “Zhere is a nurse coming, und I need you to stay avake. You vill feel some pain vhen ve move you, but after ve have left I can begin to heal you, ja?”

Medic started to hear footsteps in the hall, and a nurse entered the room pushing an ambulance stretcher. The woman was middle aged, with short, dyed hair and large earrings.

“Will you be alright moving him by yourself? I’ve been having back problems, so I can’t really lift things well right now.” She noticed the policeman, snoring quietly. “What happened? Is he ok?”

“He vas exhausted from being up all hours, so I suggested zhat he sit down. It seems he relaxed a little too much.” Medic smiled and tried to look genial. “I vill be fine vith moving him if you could move zhe curtain vhen I am ready.”

She seemed a little surprised by his accent, but didn’t question his request. “Alright then.”

Medic removed the slide board from the gurney and propped it up on the bed against the wall. He rolled Sniper towards him and moved the board underneath him, dropping him onto it. Sniper’s eyes focused for a brief moment, accompanied by a gasp and flash of pain.

Medic lowered the gurney and positioned it next to the bed, then dragged the transfer board and Sniper onto the spinal board on top of the gurney. Medic then rolled Sniper again and removed the plastic slide board. Sniper grunted, his eyes flickering shut for a moment as he almost passed out, before half opening again. That complete, Medic started to strap Sniper into the spinal board stretcher.

He packed up his briefcase and gestured to the nurse. “If you vould show me zhe direction of zhe elevator, I believe zhat ve are ready to get out of here.”

\---------------------------------------------------

 

 

Miss Pauling was waiting for Medic on the ground floor. He wheeled Sniper out of the elevator, and together they pushed him towards the exit. Corporal Wright stood by the door with his arms crossed, scowling. Outside, Miss Pauling had parked the large white van they would be transporting Sniper in.

Miss Pauling opened the back doors. “How quickly can you get Sniper to be able to give his report?”

Medic lowered the stretcher level, pushing Sniper headfirst to the opening. “If ve had Respawn pickup, two minutes and one bullet. As it is, I can reset his bones und fix zhe damage vhile ve travel. It should only take an hour.”

The two of them lifted the spinal board stretcher off of the gurney and dragged Sniper inside of the van. Medic tossed his bag and the box containing Sniper’s clothes and gear inside. Miss Pauling got out and pushed the gurney back to the hospital entrance, while Medic climbed in and closed the back doors behind him. She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, pulling away.

Miss Pauling sighed. “Well, that’s another town we can’t come back to for a while.”

“Vith any luck fraulein[7], ve von’t have to,” Medic replied.

Medic knelt next to Sniper in the back of the van, bracing himself against the jostling. Sniper looked to him with groggy eyes. He reached into his bag and pulled out a hammer and the rest of the Medigun syringes. “Now, Herr Sniper,” he chuckled, “vould be a good time to not be avake. Zhis vill hurt.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] German: ‘god damn’  
> [2] German: ‘idiot’  
> [3] German: ‘ladies’  
> [4] German: ‘and’  
> [5] German: a title or form of address used of or to a German-speaking man, corresponding to Mr. and also used before a rank or occupation.  
> [6] German: ‘good’  
> [7] German: ‘miss’
> 
> What happened is that the cops/paramedics showed up to the scene of the accident and found Sniper unconscious with a loaded firearm that wasn’t registered, and neither was the attached silencer. Hence the reason that he is being guarded. They have no idea about any briefcase.
> 
> You wouldn’t believe the amount of research I had to do to find a reason to arrest Sniper (You don’t exactly need a warrant, but you need Probable Cause or Exigent Circumstances…) I checked New Mexico gun laws, laws on silencers, laws on short barreled rifles (which is what the Huntsman Heatmaker is; a short barreled rifle with a silencer), and all sorts of crap. New Mexico gun laws are scary.  
> Anyways, the 1934 National Firearms Act decrees that all firearms and silencers must be registered with the US Government. Sniper is an assassin and a professional, so most likely he wouldn’t get them registered. This is a federal crime.  
> Also, it is illegal to carry a gun with live ammunition in New Mexico while on foot; this being a gun with a live round in the chamber, or a gun with live ammunition present in the magazine. Sniper would also qualify here; no assassin worth their salt walks around unable to shoot.  
> It’s legal to carry an unloaded, unconcealed gun on foot without a permit there. The Heatmaker sniper rifle was loaded and concealed in his pack. Exigent circumstances means that he can be held if they deem him a “flight risk”.  
> All I can say is this: thank god I’m dating a criminal justice major who knows about guns. 
> 
> Vogel is German for ‘bird’. Given his love for his doves and the obvious metaphor from his lab coat, I thought it would fit. 
> 
> Miss Pauling is not actually a lawyer, but given the other positions she has impersonated as (like a police officer, in order to rescue Soldier in a comic) I felt that this was an easy one for her to fill in a pinch. 
> 
> I first saw the idea for Medigun syringes in Kouji757’s story The Stray. (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3710644/chapters/8213752)
> 
> Room 211 used to be my boyfriend’s college dorm room a couple of years ago.
> 
> Poison ivy is actually native to Arizona (not New Mexico), and it's reasonably close to where I believe the badlands would be. Unfortunately, it’s native where I live too.
> 
> Wright and Leavitt seem very hostile and belligerent, but that is because we’re sympathetic to the cause of Miss Pauling and RED. In their eyes, Miss Pauling is attempting to bribe them in order to release a dangerous suspect (despite nearly all of his ribs being broken and his legs shattered, he WAS carrying a suppressed sniper rifle and had all the makings of an assassin) to probably do all sorts of illegal things for a criminal organization (and they would be right!). For any man who honorably swore to protect and serve, that would be the height of insult. When that didn’t work, she blackmailed the police chief. I was thinking of fraud when I wrote this. This seems alright and fine by us because we’re rooting for Miss Pauling, but from another perspective things become a lot more sinister.
> 
> I based the nurse off of my memere, who used to be a nurse. She always wore large dangly earrings whenever I saw her. In regards to that and health and safety regulations, I'm going off of the assumption that not only is this a hospital in the past, but that it's a subpar backwater facility, as evidenced by the ease with which Miss Pauling can sue.
> 
> For those who are unfamiliar with Respawn, it works like in a video game. When one of the people registered into the log die, the body vanishes soon after and reappears in Respawn a couple minutes later, fully alive and whole. Users experience nausea and dizziness, as well as any lingering ghost effects from their death. 
> 
> I really enjoyed writing Sniper’s part and the exchange between him and Medic, if you can call it an exchange. What can I say? Heh… Can you feel the schadenfreude?
> 
> On a more serious note, I was joking around about this with my beta a month back. I said something like “Sniper is such an easy character to hurt”, and was going to follow it up with something like “because we know what he cares about”, when my beta threw back a sucker punch of “Because he is hurting.” Damn. That’s deep.


	7. Smoke and Ashes

_ Badlands _

_ RED Base _

 

Miss Pauling had just finished debriefing Sniper when the phone rang in the war room. She snatched up the phone, willing her heart to slow. “Yes?”

“Miss Pauling? I wish to make my report.” It was Spy on the other end.

Miss Pauling felt a flash of relief at the fact that Spy sounded ok. “Continue.”

He coughed. “Has Sniper been retrieved?”

Miss Pauling looked over to Sniper, who sat hunched over a mug of coffee at the other end of the table. He looked at her with tired, strained eyes, as if expecting her to ask another question. If she could have forgotten the sounds she heard in the van on the way back to base, she would have happily done so. Medic was an essential part of the team, but his methods left a lot to be desired. She turned back to the phone. “Yes, we returned a few hours ago. Once he gets some real sleep he’ll be fine.” So would she. “Do you have the briefcase?”

Spy sighed. “No, Miss Pauling. That is a problem, but I believe we ‘ave a bigger one to worry about. You may want to call ze team in for zis.”

That wasn’t what she needed to hear. She could already feel a headache coming on. “Hold on one moment, Spy.” She put the call on hold and activated the PA. “Guys, would you come to the War Room? This is important.”

Miss Pauling put Spy on speaker. “While we wait for them to show up, you can start explaining things.”

“Very well, Miss Pauling. When I arrived at Gravel City…”

\------------------------------------------------

It was dawn by the time he reached his destination. 

Spy had stopped first at the corner of Black Street and North Silver. The early dawn light was just starting to rise when he parked his car and strolled nonchalantly to the scene of the crash. One of the storefronts was smashed inwards, to which a set of dark skid marks led. Glass shards and brick dust littered the sidewalk nearby. A tow truck was winching a damaged car onto its bed, and the cops were still milling around. Spy walked over to where the skid marks started, and spotted blood on the pavement. He noticed some more on the light pole nearby, wincing at the bloodstain that started four feet high and dripped down to another splatter on the ground. He searched around for a few minutes in hope of another clue, without success.

Beyond the initial crash, there was nothing else to see. Sniper ran across the street, a car hit him, and he was picked up by emergency responders. Knowing that he was receiving some kind of treatment did little to ease Spy’s concerns for his teammate. One only had to look at Medic to realize that doctors didn’t always have your best interests in mind. With that conclusion, Spy moved on.

From there, he went to see what kind of surveillance data he could gather on his target. There was just one state highway leading north from Red Signal to Gravel City, so he went back and looked for any CCTV cameras pointed towards that road. After an hour of searching and briefly breaking into a bank, he found a corner security camera showing the street, and data backed up for the last twenty four hours on video cassette. He played it backwards, smirking in amusement at the brief clip of Sniper racing by on motorcycle during the night. Most of the traffic on that road was entering the city during rush hour, presumably from Red Signal, and one solitary car during the early hours yesterday morning. 

He backed the tape up and slowed it, pausing it as the car left the camera’s view. The camera caught a pretty good partial shot of the plate, and he wrote down the description and license before leaving the bank and locking it back up behind him.

Spy’s next stop was the Gravel City Department of Motor Vehicles, where he spent a few hours looking through the records until he had amassed a list of all possible licenses, car descriptions and people associated with the partial New Mexican license he saw in the surveillance camera. Spy left through the back door, list in hand, just as the staff arrived at the front door to open for the day.

His minor acts of breaking and entering complete, Spy turned to the next item of his investigation: a phonebook. Using the names, he flipped through the pages and looked up the addresses, crossing off those around the state that didn’t match up. He started with those that lacked an address in Gravel City, and then ranked them by distance from the corner of Black Street and North Silver. This narrowed down his list of names from several dozen to two, and he narrowed it down further to just one when he cross referenced it against the business directory. 

With an address in hand, he returned to the scene of the accident.

By now, all that was left of the accident scene was a taped off section of storefront and a few bloodstains on the pavement. He continued past and up the road, following the street signs. 

The address was a simple office front, advertising open spaces for lease. The sole business on the sign proclaimed: Cooper Investigations- Solutions Found Discreetly. Spy pulled the tracker out of his pocket and turned it on. He winced at the sudden outburst of sound, which sounded almost like a Geiger counter had been placed on plutonium, and switched it off. It was no longer necessary; he had found the right place. 

A few minutes later, he stepped into the building. To his surprise, when he went to pick the lock the door was unlocked and swung easily inwards. He warily entered the dimly lit hallway listening carefully, alert to anything amiss. The silence is what tipped him off; normally you expect at least someone moving around in an occupied office building, and if not then the door should be locked, or some other notice of vacancy in place. Something had happened here, and Spy wanted to be sure that it didn’t happen to him next.

He walked down the corridor, floorboards squeaking quietly in protest. On one of the hallway walls was a door, with a glass window reading: Cooper Investigations. Spy drew his knife and crept down the hall. Unsurprisingly, the office door was unlocked. Once he stepped inside, he knew why.

Inside the room a man sat at the desk, staring lifelessly at the door with a bullet hole in his head. Spy froze, listening for any signs of movement in the room. After a minute he moved inside, closing the door behind him.

The corpse looked like the Coleman Cooper he was looking for, verified by a difficult search in the stiff dead man’s pockets for his driver’s license, which he then pocketed for later scrutiny.

Spy estimated that Cooper couldn’t have been dead for more than six hours given the state of rigor mortis the dead man was in. He couldn’t see the briefcase lying out in the open but he pulled out the tracker anyways, trying to quell the sinking feeling in his stomach.

The beeping went mad just like it had before, but this time Spy listened carefully and swung it around to discern the exact location. He followed it around to the desk, his hopes rising until he found it centered on a trash can. Within, he found a bloody handkerchief, and wrapped inside of that was a small box with TF Industries stamped on it. Spy switched off the tracker, pocketing it and the transmitter in his pocket, and heaved a sigh.

Spy pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. Not only was the briefcase not here, the trail had gone cold. In order to pick it up again, he’d have to find something here. He walked back to the door and examined the rest of the room, trying to piece together some kind of clue as to what had happened. 

The dead man was obviously looking at the door when he was shot, so it must have been someone he was talking to since there was no gun nearby, and no signs of suicide. Perhaps a deal had gone bad? It was hard to tell, since private investigators often straddled the line of legality. Many of the ones that he’d known, bribed, or impersonated would certainly fit that description. Spy turned to the desk, where a rectangle seemed to be cut out of the blood splatter on the outer edge, next to a packet of Viceroy Cigarettes. 

If he had to hazard a guess, it was the briefcase that he had been searching for. Or perhaps a rescinded payment? Someone had wiped the blood off of something, knew that they had to remove the tracker from the intelligence, and then left with it.

As he searched the room for more information, he became aware of a crackling sound nearby. He couldn’t help but think of the battlefield, and hiding from a Pyro. It was a strange thought, but persistent. Uneasily, he inhaled deeply, and his heart froze as he smelled smoke. Forgetting everything else, Spy reacted almost instinctively, opening the door to the office. Outside the hall was hot and choked with smoke, the opposite wall engulfed in flames. 

He panicked, dashing down the hall. He had burned alive far too many times to stick around, and as he raced for the door all he could think of was the peeling of burned flesh and the suffocation from smoke in his lungs. The hallway became a tunnel of flame, and he tucked his mouth into the crook of his arm as he fought for breath. Terrified, Spy burst out of the office building, a little singed.

The billowing smoke masked his exit and he darted down an alley across the street, gasping for breath. Spy willed his heartbeat to slow and glanced back at the building as he coughed. The office was being consumed by fire, flames reaching towards the sky. A small crowd had started to form, and he could hear sirens in the distance. 

Pretty soon, after the fire department was done with it, all that would be left of the building was a burned out hulk of soggy wood. Spy thumped the wall in anger and lit a cigarette, coughing. There was nothing left he could do, so he left in search of a payphone. This warranted a report.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

 “And so, I believe zat someone contacted ze private investigator and paid him to go and kill our courier.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line as Spy coughed. “How Monsieur Cooper’s client knew, I ‘ave no idea. After he took ze briefcase he went north to Gravel City, to exchange ze briefcase for money-”

“An’ exchanged it fer a bullet instead,” Demoman interrupted.

Miss Pauling gave Demoman a warning look as Spy sighed, the sound turning into a crackle over the phone. “Yes, I was getting zere. Zis all happened around dawn yesterday. Sniper tracked Monsieur Cooper across the desert to Gravel City, where I believe he found ze client. Zis is correct?”

Sniper looked up wearily from his coffee. “I saw the rotten bastard[1] walkin’ down the street. If I hadn’t been hit, I would’a saw who the blighter was.” 

“Indeed,” Spy rasped. “As it was, Sniper was hit by a car, which allowed zhe man to escape. To get back to what I was saying before, Monsieur Cooper returned to Gravel City and as Demoman so crudely described, was killed by his client after he ‘anded over ze briefcase. This was six hours before I arrived, given ze corpse’s age.”

He coughed again. “What is concerning is zat not only did ze man who killed Cooper know exactly where and when to send ‘im, but also knew that there was a tracking device inside of ze briefcase. I found it in ze trashcan. Shortly after I entered the building, it caught on fire. Was it a trap? Per’aps. Whatever ze cause or reason, ze trail is conclusively destroyed. Zere were no cameras nearby, so ze arsonist went unseen. Whoever did it knew what zey were doing.”

There was silence in the war room as everyone contemplated the fact that the briefcase was gone. 

Miss Pauling broke the silence before it could complete its inevitable turn to shouting. “You did the best you could, Spy. It’s clear now that this is an extreme breach of company security, so I should be able to take it from here.”

“Is zere anything you want me to do before I return?” Spy asked.

Miss Pauling sighed. “No, Spy. We can’t extend the ceasefire another day, so we need you back here. Come on home.”

“Yes, Miss Pauling.”

Miss Pauling disconnected the call and turned to the rest of the men. “Alright guys, we have a battle to fight tomorrow. Get to it.”

\--------------------------------------------

_ Location Unknown _

_ TFI Headquarters _

 

The Administrator ground out her cigarette sharply, and lit another one. She turned her gaze away from the many cameras she used to watch the men of RED and BLU and considered the newspaper that Miss Pauling had brought her. The article she had placed her thumb on read: _Office Building Burns in Electrical Fire, Killing 1._

“And the briefcase is effectively untraceable, Miss Pauling?” The Administrator made it more a statement than a question.

Miss Pauling adjusted her glasses in shame. “Yes, Madam Administrator. The tracker was removed and it could be anywhere by now, especially if it got onto a plane.”

The Administrator was silent for a moment, smoking the cigarette with a grudge. Miss Pauling hovered behind her chair, afraid to move or break the silence. Finally she threw it down in anger. “I want the security breach found. I don’t care how long you have to search, or how many resources you need to do it, I want it sealed. And I want agents sent to watch the mercenaries’ families.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll start on that now!” She replied earnestly.

After Miss Pauling had fled, the Administrator tossed the newspaper in the trash. She knew that with the information missing there was a possibility that the men would revolt in the belief that they had nothing more to lose, and that she would lose control. She couldn’t have that. 

Anyone who played chess could tell you what happened to pawns that went against the queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] In Australia, "Bastard" has a variety of good and bad meanings, depending on the subject and conversation. "Rotten" means horrible. Combined, it's not polite.
> 
> Closed circuit television became commercially available in 1949, and the home security system was patented in 1969. However, recording technology wasn’t really around for security cameras yet, so you had to have people sit and watch the footage. The earliest footage recording devices used magnetic tapes, which were expensive and the reels had to be manually threaded through. VCR technology became available in the late 1970s. Tapes recorded 24 hours at most. In the 1990s digital multiplexing allowed for multiple cameras to record, and time lapse technology was invented. What I’m trying to say here is that Spy’s use of the cameras is a little chronologically inaccurate, but given that this is a universe with hover cars and teleportation devices, I think we can stretch the timeline a bit.
> 
> New Mexico vehicles are only required by law to have a back license plate. Silver City does in fact have a DMV, an airport, and a hospital.
> 
> I had the song “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” by ACDC when I thought of Cooper.
> 
> At the behest of my beta, Geiger counters are devices that click in the presence of radioactive material. The stronger the alpha/beta/gamma particle discharge (the more radioactive something is), the faster it clicks. Think of it like a metronome.  
> #WeirdthingsI'veresearched: The stages of Rigor Mortis.
> 
> I imagine that the accents of the characters get thicker when they’re upset. If you would like to read this chapter with fewer accents, please see my profile to contact me. 
> 
> The working title used to be Cold. I toyed for a little while with Burnt Baguette for the actual title, but Smoke and Ashes fit better. 
> 
> This is the end of Arc One. Stay tuned for Arc Two and Arc Three.


	8. Is That Part Of Our Cable Package?

_ Five months later  _

_ Badlands Battlefield _

 

 

RED Engineer ducked behind the corner of the battlements, gunfire singing its deadly staccato all around him. The BLU Scout sprinted past and his sentry beeped, the guns spitting out bullets in a lethal spray. It was a shame that the city boy ran too fast for even rapid-fire tracking, but that’s what shotguns were for. Besides that, he had a few ideas cookin’ to fix that boy for good. The Texan fired a few shells in the Scout’s direction as a warning.

He peered around the corner to take a look at the central control point. Sure enough, the BLUs were swarming the spire like jackrabbits in a field of clover. The yellow bellied cowards had taken that point a few days ago, and a small part of the Engineer wondered how long the control point he was defending would stay RED. He wasn’t really sure where their offensive strategy went, but it sure as hell wasn’t here. He poked his head back around and resumed working on his sentry. 

Whatever happened they had to defend this point, so he’d be here ‘till the bitter end. Sooner or later his teammates would hopefully get their asses in gear and get to retaking that mother hubbardin’ point they lost.

A Sniper shot rang overhead, and he ducked instinctively. Farther down the field the enemy Heavy, howled from a bullet to the shoulder and turned his machine gun to the RED Sniper, who was crouched under the bridge. The marksman was forced to flee, clutching his hat while he ran from thousands of custom tooled bullets. The sentry chirped as the BLU came into range, spitting bullets that ripped into the bigger man. The Heavy roared in pain and started to bring his gun around to bear on the sentry as it launched a rocket at him. Engineer stepped to the side to avoid the bloody chunks and shrapnel from the explosion and patted his baby. Sometimes, they just have to learn the hard way not to mess with him.

Sniper fire cracked overhead and he ducked again. A bullet smashed through the woodwork where his head was barely a second ago. Where was the Spy when you needed him? Or for that matter, anyone else? Somebody ought to take care of that Sniper, and he hoped it’d happen soon. Rattled, he hunkered back down behind cover.

The Engineer turned to Pyro, who stood by his Dispenser and deflected a rocket-jumping BLU Soldier with a jet of compressed air from its flame thrower, throwing the man onto some of their own Demoman’s mines. The firebug turned to look at him, and gave him a cheerful thumbs up.

He smiled a little worriedly in return and turned away again to shoot his shotgun, providing cover for their Scout to run around the corner and into the next building in search of the enemy Sniper. He wished that he could he could feel as optimistic as the Pyro. They weren’t doing real badly right now...but sooner or later he just knew that the enemy Medic would be Ubercharging a Demoman to blow right through his machines like wet tissue paper, and that gol’darn Spy was still lurking around somewhere. With any luck, he’d find that backstabber before his sentry got sapped. The thought that the BLUs might actually win this one left a sour taste in his mouth. As disorganized at his team was right now, he knew from bitter experience that anything right now could be the finishing blow.

Farther away he could see their Spy disguised as the BLU Heavy sneak up on the enemy Engineer as he was about to place down his toolbox and erect another darn Teleporter. The spook undisguised and stabbed the man in the back before he could turn around, and a few seconds later he cloaked and sprinted away as he vanished. It served that BLU idiot in coveralls just fine, even if the Engineer wished that the RED spook would go take care of that darn Sniper. He hadn’t seen the Scout for a while, and had to wonder what was going on out there. 

A sharp crack echoed from one of the buildings, and the shimmery moving shadow of Spy’s cloak disappeared as a now very visible Spy was shot. The Engineer winced. It wasn’t looking good for Scout.

He didn’t dare leave to look for more scrap metal or to upgrade his other builds, despite the help Pyro gave him in defending this Tier 3 sentry guarding the point. Like the hundreds of times before, he knew that as soon as he left his spot _something_ would happen and his build would be scrapmetal. His skin itched and he looked around, desperate to catch a glimpse of an approaching BLU Spy. He knew that the gutless little worm would show, sooner or later, and the very second he left his baby that slimy snake would be sapping it. 

He heard the hiss of a cloaking device nearby, and Pyro hooted in delight. Engineer gripped his shotgun.

“Where are ya, ya dirty coward?” He growled quietly. With the screams and sounds of gunshot echoing around him it was impossible to hear where the backstabber was slinking around. He narrowed his eyes and took a protective step towards his sentry.

Engineer spotted a shimmer of a Spy’s cloaking device a few feet from his Dispenser and he lunged forward, swinging wildly with his wrench. He clipped the invisible figure and its telltale blue outline became visible. Taking this as their cue, Pyro stepped forward and sprayed a deadly wall of fire, completely enveloping the Spy. Shrieking, the Spy ran off while beating at his clothes.

Engineer chuckled in satisfaction. A burning Spy was almost as good as a dead one. 

“I am fully charged!” A Medic shouted nearby.

The Engineer’s blood froze, and he sent a quick prayer to whoever was listening that it was his team’s Medic that spoke, or that someone would take out the enemy Medic before he could Ubercharge someone, or some other kind of salvation would come. Anything would do. If the enemy was ready to charge, he knew that they were sunk.

A few seconds later his worst fears were a reality, as an Ubered BLU Demoman came staggering around the corner with a grenade launcher in one hand and a bottle in the other, with the BLU Medic shadowing him as a grim glowing angel of death. 

The BLU Demoman shot grenades as gunfire bounced off of him. “I’m goin’ ta blast ya into thin gruel!” 

Time slowed as Engineer was paralyzed with horror, watching the grenades hurtle towards them. He felt the Pyro wrap their hand around his arm, dragging him around the corner and running like a bat out of hell. The Demoman’s laughter rang in his ears as his babies exploded into useless scrap metal and their Ubercharge ran out. When the explosions had cleared the RED Spy suddenly uncloaked on the point, shooting at the advancing BLUs in a desperate attempt to buy some time. The BLU Soldier descended from the heavens with a scream, landing heavily on the Spy and crushing him beneath his army boots. The massed BLUs surged forward to stand on the point.

Right before his eyes he could see their plans for retaking the last point or even defending this one crumbling away. Their plan should have gone right, winning them the match, but for the little things. Not enough scrap metal in the right place, Medic getting shot by the enemy Sniper just as he was ready to release an Ubercharge, the BLU Engineer putting teleporters all over the place, Scout stepping on a bomb, allowing the enemy Demoman to advance and drop sticky bombs everywhere… the list went on. It was amazing how the little things added up. 

“Alert! The Control Point is being contested!” The Administrator crowed.

_ Naw, really? I thought we were having a Texas tea party _ , Engineer thought numbly as his team converged on the point in a desperate attempt to retake it. He threw himself behind cover, the rough boards shuddering from the impact, and started firing, attempting to pick off the enemy Medic. More BLUs arrived on the point and the seconds dragged by, as every enemy killed was replaced by another. 

“You failed!” Her voice was shrill and accusatory.

The Engineer’s shoulders slumped in dread as the enemy team swept forward, cheering and shooting as they took full advantage of the victory.

\------------------------------------------------------------

The Engineer stumbled out of Respawn after the ceasefire was called. The sun was starting to set, and the hot rays reflected off of everything, creating strange shadows. He tried to block out the last few seconds of memory just before he died, and went off in search of his builds to see if any of them were still intact. He doubted it, but you never knew, did ya? Maybe the other team was so focused on slaughtering him and his teammates that they completely left his babies alone.

For some reason, in the agonizing minutes between losing the battle and a ceasefire being called, guns jammed and melee weapons fell apart in your hands. It was amazing how difficult it was to fight back in those circumstances, especially when you got hit with a shovel in the face a few seconds later.

The first build he came to, which should have been a small sentry, was nothing more than a twisted pile of scrap metal. He felt a great wave of sorrow for the little sentry. It was never meant to really take any concentrated fire, why’d they have to do that to the poor little thing? He’d left it behind to protect his teammates as they left Respawn, and not even that part of the plan had gone right. He knelt down, picked up a piece of body casing torn by bullet holes, and stroked it. 

“You tried yer best, little feller. I’m sorry,” he told it lovingly. 

He placed it down gently and stood back up, dusting off his knees. The Engineer continued down the diminished RED territory perimeter, and he felt a little stab in his heart as he arrived at every destroyed building. Wasn’t winning enough for them? He wondered if they all took some perverse delight in demolishing all of his hard work. The enemy Spy certainly derived immense gratification from it, in which case the best solution he had found so far was a gun. 

To his delight, one of his Dispensers was still up and working. He had stashed it out of the way near one of the buildings, and fortunately it seemed to be mostly unharmed. He felt a thrill of triumph at the fact that no matter how bad today had gone, at least one of his builds had survived the fight. There was something in that, and he meant to use it to keep on going.

He crouched down next to the build and took off his helmet to mop his forehead before dismantling his creation. He loosened a few bolts here, whacked a few joints there, and it folded up neatly. The Engineer pulled the toolbox hinges upright and slotted the pins into the joints to turn it into a proper box around the build again. He closed the lid and patted it. 

With a grunt, the Engineer lifted it onto his shoulder and started taking the long way back to base. He was in no hurry to return, and the sweet evening air would do his headache a world of good. The first night after a loss was never a good time at the base. Soldier would be lecturing to anyone he could, blaming everyone for their failures and producing no end of ill feeling. Soldier wasn’t a bad guy most of the time, if a little crazy, but it was just plain rude when he marched right up to you and insulted you and your performance to your face. Tempers would be shorter, and he just knew that some kind of fight would break out. Dinner was whatever you could find. Everything was just a little more uncomfortable, and he’d rather stay out a little longer before he holed up in his workshop and locked the door.

He turned the corner and took in the sights of the battlefield. You didn’t see much of it in detail during a battle, especially when pretty much anyone could be trying to kill you, thanks to the disguises of the enemy Spy. He looked over to the entrance, which was built right into the giant hoodoo above. How had it been built without toppling the rocks? Given some proper educated thought, the Engineer was pretty sure that he could figure it out, and maybe even improve on the technique.

Something sparkled up on the roof of the building, winking in the sunset. This tickled his curiosity; there shouldn’t be anything shiny up there. Their half of the Badlands battlefield was all rusted metal and wood, nothing that could ever give a reflection. 

He didn’t really want to go back to base anyways, so he decided to give it a look. After a few minutes of climbing he made it up the roof and put his toolbox down, huffing. It sure was heavy, but there was no way he was going to leave the last of his babies behind. From this spot you could see pretty much anything, and the sunset was beautiful. The roof itself was sparse; with just an air vent system, a few pipes, and the video antenna. 

The Engineer, as well as the rest of the men, knew that their every move was being watched by the Administrator. She called the tune, and they danced to it hoping like hell that the steps they made were the right ones. She had her cameras everywhere and broadcasted it all to wherever she was, using wires and antennas and all sorts of technology to remotely control the battles. The Engineer considered himself to be a southern gentleman, but that kind of business set his teeth on edge and made him want to burn that spider out of her nest, wherever it was.

That sort of nastiness aside, he knew what the antennas should look like, and they certainly shouldn’t look like this. 

The sunlight glinted on a strange metallic shape, which seemed embedded into the meter box powering the antenna. It couldn’t have been shrapnel from the battle; everything was reinforced, and shrapnel didn’t have blinking lights or an antenna. It looked like nothing he’d seen before, and he wagered that it didn’t belong either. If it belonged to the Administrator messing with it would bring no end of trouble, but he had to be sure of what it really was, and why it was there.

The Engineer walked back to his toolbox, hefted it up again, and started the slow descent to call Miss Pauling.

 

\--------------------------------------------

Miss Pauling rubbed her temples and stared at the thing on one of Engineer’s work benches. She couldn’t remember the last time she got a full night’s sleep. Saturday? No… she was sand belting fingerprints then. Not only did she have to deal with keeping the men from both teams out of jail, finding the missing briefcase, and whatever secretarial work the Administrator needed done, she now had whatever _this_ was on top of it. 

As far as the briefcase was concerned, it had seemingly vanished off of the earth. Even using the full power of TF Industries and its subsidiaries, RED and BLU, the search had turned up nothing. The Administrator controlled RED and BLU, which each secretly controlled half of the world’s governments, and with even this scale of power and bureaucracy the briefcase still failed to appear. 

They had scoured the classifieds of every newspaper around the world for months, checked every black market exchange, and sent agents to every auction, private or otherwise. They pumped contacts and had pried as far as they could into every organization, short of infiltrating the high inner circles. A few people had been lost along the way, but that was the price to be paid in turning over every stone, wasn’t it? Miss Pauling tried to reassure herself of that every night, with little success. 

The fact that it had simply disappeared was terrifying. Not only had someone been privy to its existence and was able to steal it, they were able to make it vanish without a trace. Whoever did this was outside of the Administrator’s control, and that scared her the most.

The Engineer was trying to get her attention. She rubbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry Engineer, can you repeat that?” She looked blearily at him. “I’ve been having a rough week. Bodies don’t bury themselves.”

Even behind the welding goggles that he was wearing, you could see his eyebrows rise. “Well Miss Pauling,” he ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw, “this ain’t like nothin’ I’ve seen before.”

He pointed to the object on the table, which had been pulled from the electrical meter box on the roof. The whole package almost looked like a hypodermic needle scaled up to about a foot in length, with a long metal needle set at the end of a polished, shiny cylinder. At the end of the cylinder was a small antenna. The case had been cracked open, and an extremely small computer board and chips with small inactive lights had been extracted. The computer board was scarred by a black scorch mark.

Miss Pauling pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to quell her headache. “What do you think it is, Engineer?”

The Engineer picked it up, holding it closer to the light. “Frankly, I’ve never seen anythin like it before. It kinda looks like a computer, but without any real standard parts. There’s not even a port to connect it to somethin’. I know it was pullin’ power like a mule, and it looked like it’d been punched through the meter box cover, but other than that I’m a little stumped.” He grimaced in frustration. “Sorry Miss Pauling, I wish I could help ya more with this one. Gimme a day, and I’ll tinker around with it.”

“Ahem.”

They looked up to see Spy leaning in the doorway. He idly took a drag on his cigarette and considered them with an almost bored expression. The Engineer sighed. He hated nasty, backstabbin’ spooks, and it sometimes was a real struggle to work with their own, which always seemed to have a few aces up his sleeve. Spy enjoyed it when he knew something you didn’t, and held his cards pretty close to his chest. It seemed to Engineer that tonight, Spy was going to be more difficult than usual.

“You want somethin’, Spah?” he asked.

Spy smiled, walking into the room. He spread his hands out theatrically. “I have ze solution to your little problem. I know what zat little gadget is.”

“Well? Are you going to just stand there lookin’ smug, or do ya care to explain? You can quit the smoke and mirrors, Spah.”

“It’s really quite simple,” he said as he walked into the room and held out his hand for the contraption. Engineer rolled his eyes and passed it over with thinly veiled irritation. “Zis is an extremely advanced interceptor.”

“Well, Spah,” the Engineer said, trying to keep his tone polite. It irked him that sometimes Spy knew more about technology than he did, and he wasn’t in the mood to hear the man gloat. “Let’s just assume that neither of us know what an interceptor is, alright? Get to the point.”

Miss Pauling stifled a yawn. “Please, Spy? It’s been a long day for me.”

Spy held up a hand placatingly, his game of needling the Engineer interrupted. “Of course, Miss Pauling. An interceptor is meant to capture enemy radio traffic and send it somewhere else.” He considered the piece of technology in his hands. “I’ve never seen one zis small, but it seems to be able to take a radio transmission and act as a router, dispatching it to another receiver than the original target. Where did you find this?”

The Engineer rubbed the back of his head. “Well, we found it by the radio transmitter. Ya know,” he gestured to the camera in the corner of the room, its red light softly winking, “for the cameras.”

Spy took a slow drag on his cigarette, his expression turned serious. “Ah,” he said quietly, “that one.” 

“It was stuck into the meter box an’ suckin’ power, an’ the lights went out as soon as I pulled it.” The Engineer flexed his mechanical hand with a series of well-oiled clicks. “Damn near shorted out my hand as soon as I touched it, so it was drawin’ some pretty good power.”

“Do you think that it was broadcasting the camera feed?” Miss Pauling asked.

Spy considered her question for a moment. “Mmm. It’s possible. A router uses a very low power transmitter, but if it was using the base power it might be able to catch some of the original broadcast. It’s a very compact device, so it may only be able to pick up a little bit of the frequency. How far does the original signal travel?”

Miss Pauling frowned. “The signal runs through many secure servers after it leaves the antenna. It travels some distance before it gets sent to where the Administrator can see it.”

Spy raised an eyebrow. “Which is where?”

Miss Pauling gave Spy a pained expression. “Spy, you know that I can’t tell you that. All of the camera feeds connect up there where it’s combined into one condensed feed, and then it’s sent out. This is the closest that the system has to a weak point. We tried to tie up all of the loose ends, fortunately, so the signal is encrypted.”

Spy puffed on his cigarette and crossed his arms. “But for how long? Much of zis particular sector of espionage is devoted to decryption. After the signal is captured, it is simply a matter of time. Someone will eventually decode it.”

“Well if we can find out where it’s going, maybe we can stop them before it gets to that point.” She looked to both of them. “Can we track it?”

The Engineer shrugged. “We probably can’t track it, but if ya jack it into a power source again and we take a look at the frequency, I could give ya a radius to look in. One of the chips is fried, so all it’d be sending is static. It’s not perfect, but-”

“If that’s the best option we have, then I’ll take it.” Miss Pauling sighed. “If you can point me in the right direction, I’ll take it from there. But while I’m doing that, I have a job for you two."

Spy gave her an appraising look. “And what would that entail?”

“I need you both to check out some of the other bases in the surrounding area. I need to know if this is an isolated incident, or if we’ve been overlooking something,” she replied.

Spy frowned. “Miss Pauling, why am I needed for zis?” he asked, disgruntled.

“I can agree with that. I can do it on mah own, why does he hafta come along?” The Engineer protested.

“Because I want to see exactly what’s being broadcasted, and Spy knows more about the things.” She took the device from Spy and pointed at the burned connections on the computer board. “Something broke in this one when we took it off; if there’s more than one of these we need to see what it does when it’s working.”

The Engineer massaged his wrist with his mechanical hand. “Well when you put it that way, we’ll see what we can do for you.”

Spy sighed. “Indeed, Miss Pauling. We will set out after tomorrow’s battle.”

“We can reschedule the battle, this is more important.” She remembered that this comment would seem out of place, and added, “We’ll contact BLU and negotiate to move the battle.”

The Engineer chuckled. “Just let me know when you tell the others, I want ta be far as away from Soldier as I can when he hears the news. We’ll get ‘er done, don’t you worry.” 

She smiled wanly. “Thanks, gentlemen. I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

Spy’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips in curiosity. “You think that zis is related to our missing briefcase?”

Miss Pauling crossed her arms and rubbed at them. “I don’t know...maybe. I don’t know why anyone would want that kind of information. I mean, it’s just you guys fighting. Unless someone was really bored or really liked watching battlefields, I can’t imagine why someone would go out of their way to try and hack the cameras.”

“Do you think it’s BLU?” The Engineer asked.

In her exhausted state of mind, she almost told them that no, it couldn’t possibly be BLU, because the Administrator controls both sides, and she just barely caught herself as the words formed. They couldn’t know. A comment like that could end the Gravel War. 

To be honest… well, she had no idea who exactly was doing it. Yet. It wasn’t any government, but maybe it was a mafia? 

Mafias were tricky. The Administrator allowed them to exist as long as they didn’t cross her, and many of them owed everything to her. She knew enough about the players that mattered that she could destroy any mafia, should she feel the need. Criminal organizations that were slow to yield to her commands in the past were quickly eliminated. This, Miss Pauling thought, could be a cause for resentment. One of them could be jerking on the leash, attempting to find a way to break it. Yes, it was probably that. Once they found out which one it was, the Administrator could deal with it.

“No, BLU has never done this sort of thing before,” she replied. “I think it’s a criminal organization. They have the resources, and maybe a motive. We haven’t found anything yet, but if one of them is stealing our information, they could do it with only a few members really knowing a full plan for it. Whatever it is that’s going on, I’ll find out.”

“Mm, for all of our sakes, I hope so. In ze meantime all of us, especially you Miss Pauling, should get some rest. The problem may look better in ze morning,” Spy said.

Miss Pauling rubbed at her eyes. A real bed. That sounded wonderful right now. In a world where her job just kept getting harder, she could really use a bed. The part of her brain still working tried to interject that she might want to go home to her own bed, but was quietly shushed by the prospect of travelling while this exhausted. “Yeah... we can figure this out later.” Tiredly aware of her position as their superior, she added. “Alright, I’ll see you two at eight.”

And in the background as they left the workshop, the cameras rolled on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme songs for this chapter include This Ain’t No Place For No Hero by The Heavy, Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked by Cage the Elephant, and Five Finger Death Punch’s cover of Bad Company.
> 
> This may come as a surprise to readers, but I’ve never played TF2. Everything you see here is the result of research and many google searches. (I love the characters THAT much, folks.) In any case, in the game there is a gameplay type where the men of RED and BLU contest over territory on maps, denoted by Control Points. These are metal circles probably 10 ft in diameter, and light up in the colors of whatever team holds the territory. Stand on an enemy point for long enough, and that territory becomes yours. Per game map there are generally five, with a central point, mid-ground, and one in each base. The game generally concludes when one team has captured all five points. I chose to have each battle start and finish over one point, in deference to the idea first put forward by TheHobbitHearted in their excellent story, Game Mechanics: Autobalance. (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5302892/1/Game_Mechanics_Autobalance) 
> 
> Ubercharge is what happens when a Medic uses their Medigun (which heals and mends dying men) for long enough to build up a ‘charge’. The men all have corresponding devices implanted on their hearts (as seen in the Meet the Medic video), so that if the Medic releases a charge onto the person they become invincible to most types of damage for a maximum of eight seconds glowing either red or blue. You could stuff a live grenade in their hat, and the explosion wouldn’t hurt them or the Medic. Naturally this is a massive advantage for any team, so one of a Sniper’s primary jobs is keeping the enemy Medic from building up that charge. It’s often used to lead an offensive charge or bust through enemy defenses, as seen here. 
> 
> Whenever one team loses, there’s a grace period between the loss and the end of the match (“ceasefire” in the story, when the men aren’t supposed to kill each other) where the losing side can’t fight back. Usually, this is the cue for the winning team to mercilessly slaughter the other side in the cruelest way possible. They may be mercenaries, but when you’re getting shot by the same bloody faces for two years, anyone can form a grudge.
> 
> If any of the readers are unfamiliar with the particulars of each mercenaries’ job (the Spy, for example), leave a comment and I’ll give you an overview.
> 
> The Administrator watches them somehow. The video either goes by cables or antenna, and I can't really picture cables, which would either have to be buried (expensive) or over the ground (easy to cut) because she can't surely be on base while they're fighting, especially since she speaks remotely.
> 
> While the Administrator controls both sides (and Miss Pauling interacts with both. Imagine TWO Scouts trying to hit on you.), both RED and BLU are mostly unaware of this. Learning that battles are scheduled and controlled to keep the Gravel Wars in stalemate (to keep the Mann brothers occupied, allowing the Administrator total control) would have very nasty consequences, so Miss Pauling has to be careful about what she says. The Spies suspect, but investigating into it isn’t worth the trouble.
> 
> The TF2 universe is similar to our own in many ways, as seen in the gigantic cell phone Miss Pauling uses, and the computers that the Administrator uses, but far different in others. I try my best to mesh my stories with our own history to seem relatable, but in some cases I either just can’t find the information (google does NOT have all the answers, and I really hope that no one obtains a warrant for my search history) or the technology I need hasn’t been invented yet. I’m trying to take a world with cloaking devices, fully functional turrets, and Mediguns, and relate this to our own world, where the first router didn’t come out until the 80s. So in some cases, I’m forced to make it up as I go along, which I hate but have little alternative to. 
> 
> Furthermore, I have little background in computers. I use them on a daily basis, but I couldn’t make one or describe how they work, and whenever someone tries to explain basic concepts I struggle to understand. My brain just doesn’t work that way, in the same way that I’m fascinated by plant identification and the subtle differences between leaf shape and arrangement, petal composition, and bark details- something that would baffle most people. So if you read something and say “it doesn’t work that way!” it’s because I didn’t know that it didn’t work that way and found no other way of working it so it could fit. 
> 
> In any case, it took me several months of researching technology to figure out how exactly the video would get hacked.


	9. Hole In One

_ Ghost town of Dodge, New Mexico _

 

This wasn’t how she imagined that she would be spending her Saturday. 

Her job certainly took her to interesting places, and she did meet a lot of people, but usually that was on the point of departure. Miss Pauling took satisfaction from those little personal touches, courtesy of her boss, the Administrator. There was always somewhere new to be, something else to do. 

This particular place however, was one of those that certainly wasn’t new. If anything, it was an old.

Miss Pauling grabbed her pack and jumped out of the track onto the bleached and cracked pavement. The afternoon heat was just starting to dissipate while the sun crept towards the horizon.

Once the Engineer had hooked up the transmitter to a power source again and measured the frequency and the hypothetical sensitivity of a receiver that could possibly intercept the signal, he gave her a rough estimation of the radius that a receiver could be in. It wasn’t perfect, and she had a one mile margin of error, but out here in the Badlands she could see for miles. For the past seven hours, all she had done was drive, stop, get onto her roof, and scan the terrain with her binoculars. Tedious and tiring, but she felt that she was onto something. 

Miss Pauling stretched cramped muscles, under protest from hours of driving. 

This far out, there weren’t really any people living in the Badlands. It was the kind of place you drove through, nowadays. In the past, back when rich seams of silver, copper, and gold were all seemingly just around the corner, corporations funded the construction of new settlements and pushed the envelope of development in the name of progress and profits. Sometimes it worked, and those little settlements went on to become successful towns. Most of the time though, the end result was a failed mine and the desert slowly reclaiming abandoned buildings. 

She pulled out her GPS unit and checked the coordinates. Satisfied that she was within the margin of error, she put it away and continued towards the building. 

Miss Pauling had already checked one of those places, a little settlement half buried in sand and cactus. There were no signs that anyone had been there in a long time, and the only moment of excitement was when she found a scorpion in her sunhat. She took note of the coordinates while there; after all, a girl should never pass up a good abandoned cemetery. You never know when you might need it. 

Other times, places failed because there wasn’t a good reason to go there, or a new highway bypassed them. As a result, you got little places like this. A gas station on a road nobody drove anymore, surrounded by scrub brush and cacti. Off in the distance, a bird croaked.

Miss Pauling knelt down and looked closely at the indents in the sand around the building. She wished that she was half as good as Sniper at discerning the age of footprints, but they looked pretty old. She took a picture of them anyways, for what good it might do. A look in through a dusty, cracked window told her that no one had been inside for a while. She took a few steps back and took a picture of the building front. It was the kind of place you passed by. And she might have, had she not seen a glint of metal in the sunlight when she stopped to look in her binoculars for what felt like the umpteenth time. That required a closer look. 

Moving carefully, she eased her way through the bushes and cactus to the back of the building. She felt a twinge of unease as she listened for the telltale warning rattle of a snake whose bite would cease to be agonizing after a few hours, and rounded the corner.

Behind the convenience store, illuminated fully by the setting sun, was a small antenna. She guessed that it was about six feet tall, and there wasn’t a speck of rust on it. Miss Pauling felt a thrill run through her. _Was this the place?_ Only one way to find out.

She slung the camera strap over her shoulder and drew her handgun. Miss Pauling approached cautiously, pistol aimed low in front of her. The antenna appeared powered down, its lights dim. Next to the antenna, on the other side sat a diesel generator, new and shiny. Underneath the antenna sat a box, painted black and shaded by a sheet of metal tacked in place. Next to the building were a few barrels, old fuel tanks no doubt, and some covered boxes. Miss Pauling carefully scanned the surroundings, and when satisfied that she was alone, holstered her pistol again. 

Miss Pauling crouched down and examined the box. In all likelihood, it held the hardware that the Engineer had patiently described to her in the morning. Now, she could open it and possibly set off an alarm, or she could summon others to come inspect it. But any delay could possibly tip off whoever placed this here. And the Administrator wanted answers, as soon as possible. She thought back to her truck, parked on the side of the road. Anyone could see it, and it would be just her luck if it was whoever put this here. No, something had to be done. 

Whoever made the box was completely inconsiderate, and didn’t leave so much as a name or return address on the cover, which she removed after picking the lock. Only a two digit serial number, which she took a picture of. There was a panel with a small display, powered down. There were knobs and plugs, all as incomprehensible to Miss Pauling as calculus to a clown fish. She wished that Engineer was here. He might know what all of this was. But with the tools he gave her, she might be able to do something. 

She dug around in her pack and pulled a box out of it, the cord tightly wound around it. If she could get the generator running and get some power through the antenna, than this would pick up a signal. Ducking under an antenna support strut, she inspected the back of the box. The plug on the left he said, the blue one he said… never mind that none of these look remotely like what the Engineer said they might look like. She pulled out a few cords, compared them to the plug on the device the Engineer gave her, and inserted it into the most likely slot. If it worked, when it was started up it would record frequency, range, destination… all things that would put them a step closer to solving everything. 

She took a few pictures of everything, and then approached the generator. With a rip of the cord it started, coughing violently into life and sputtering to a hum. The device flickered to life, yet the display in the box remained dim. She watched it hopefully.

A faint blinking in her peripheral vision caught her attention, and she turned towards it. A small, briefcase sized box was positioned behind the generator, close to the barrels. Quietly beeping. On its face, a display was counting down.

Several thoughts collided in Miss Pauling’s mind, like frenzied cats all sprinting for the same, small exit. Some of them calculated the probability that this new development was completely harmless and didn’t mean impending doom. The rest of them knew damn well what was going on. It was a bomb, counting down. By now, she’d made enough of them to know.

A surge of panic rushed through Miss Pauling, and she sprinted to the bomb- now she could clearly see that it _was_ a bomb- welded to the antenna. She ripped the cover off and fumbled with a knife in her pack. Careful, careful, which wire was it that she had to cut? The red one? She frantically rifled through them, only to find that all of them were black. Her blood froze. The display was counting down from thirty seconds now, and she had no idea what to do.

If she cut one, and it was the wrong one, it would go off. She counted the wires. She had a one in five chance of choosing right. 

She glanced at the screen. Fifteen seconds. Fourteen. Thirteen. Time ticking way, and no way to know if a choice made would be right. There was no time to think, no time to do it right. Miss Pauling looked at the identical wires again. Eleven. Ten. She panicked, launching herself up and grabbing her bag. Bushes scraped against her legs as she sprinted, out towards the road. How far could she run? Would it be enough? She loosened her jaw, hoping that would keep her teeth from shattering, if she survived.

There was a flash and a _whoomph_ , more felt than heard, all combined into the biggest bang Miss Pauling had ever felt, even after that one night out with Demoman. Then the ground jumped up and hit her, and she rolled out and away from the explosion. She spat out dust and rubbed at her eyes as she slowly tumbled to a stop. Her hands and elbows throbbed, and she could feel the sting of cuts all over her face. 

A high pitched ringing shrieked in her ears. Slowly, painfully, she rolled around to look at the inferno the gas station was engulfed in. All that was left was twisted metal, collapsing supports, and flames which licked hungrily at the sky. What was left of the building was falling in pieces.

Hazily, she thought of the device that the Engineer had given her, which by now was likely in melted pieces, if there was anything left. It had been left behi- no, _she_ had abandoned it and ran for safety. Shame and frustration welled up inside her, and she thumped the ground and howled wordlessly. She blew it, the only chance they had at tracing the signal. Destroyed. Gone. The Administrator was going to kill her. 

Miss Pauling chuckled a little through the tears at the thought. She wondered where her body would be buried. Or would she be cremated? A minute ago, she could have saved her boss the trouble. But if she was going to go, she would finish the job first. Pride is a terrible thing.

Shakily, she pushed herself to her feet, and staggered dizzily. She sat down again until the world stopped spinning. She went to wrap her arms around herself, and felt the weight of her camera thump against her. Hope welled up, for a brief moment. Miss Pauling inspected it, and found that while the body was cracked beyond repair, the film was intact. That was something. Maybe she wouldn’t die today. 

Miss Pauling rose slowly, and started walking towards her truck. With a crash and a shriek that in hindsight probably was from her and not the truck, a twisted and flaming piece of antenna roared from the sky and fell into her truck bed with a bang. She froze in place, and the flames on the shrapnel guttered and died. Shaking, wishing that she could just curl up and sleep right there, she climbed into the cab. The piece of antenna could wait. She needed a coffee. A large one. And maybe to scream for a long time, and then to sleep for a year. That sounded nice. 

It landed perfectly, right in the bed, she thought distractedly as she started the engine. Like a slam dunk, or a cherry on top. What are the odds? She knew she was in shock, but sticking around wasn’t an option. Even in the Badlands, someone had to have noticed the explosion. There would be paperwork. 

Today was a hell of a Saturday.

Right now, Sunday wasn’t looking much better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was surprised to find that the song I’ve always thought of as “Red Eye Love” is actually “Radar Love” by Golden Earring. In any case, it’s a good song.
> 
> Dodge is based after the ghost town of Tyrone, New Mexico. An excerpt from Wikipedia cites that “Tyrone was an elaborately planned community financed by the Phelps Dodge Corporation, based on Mediterranean and European styles, designed by well-known architect Bertram Goodhue and built in 1915 at a cost of more than a million dollars. A drop in copper prices in 1921 closed the mines and the town was deserted. The town site was later destroyed as part of Phelps Dodge's development of the Tyrone open-pit copper mine, which began operation in 1969.”
> 
> I based the interceptor off of a condensed version of either the Minilock 6910 or the Přístroj. The general equation for estimating the distance of a radio field strength is d= √30 Pt / E, with d as distance, Pt as total power, and E is field strength in Volts/meter.
> 
> The rattlesnake whose bite would cease to be agonizing after a few hours is a shout out to Terry Pratchett’s The Lost Continent: “The man had even hit the seashore once and paddled in a little way to look at the pretty blue jellyfish, and it was all the watcher could do to see that he got a mere light sting which ceased to be agonizing after only a few days” (~pg 23).
> 
> For those curious about what really happened to the briefcase, it didn’t go to the four corners of the world. Part of the thief’s strategy depends on a sneak attack, and letting just anyone get their hands on the information within is messy and provides unknown variables to his plan. If he wanted allies, he would have done so.
> 
> Upon randomly texting my boyfriend to ask how much C4 I would hypothetically need to blow up a gas station, he replied that a briefcase size would do, and furthermore to have the character place it near a gas tank. I didn’t even tell him that I was writing. I love that man.


	10. It was turning into that kind of day, the kind you saw everyday

_ “...should’ve known… -ter… I… -’ve seen it comin” _

The Engineer scowled and tapped the radio in an effort to retain the signal using impact maintenance, but the rest of the song was lost to static. He huffed and switched the radio off. 

“Guess that’s the last of the music fer a while,” he said.

Spy lifted his head from the backrest and opened his eyes. “Good. I was getting a headache.”

Spy could see the Engineer grind his teeth silently and bite back a response. He knew that being near someone as devilishly handsome and suave as himself was taking a toll on the man, so he held his tongue. All joking aside, his BLU counterpart was an idiot in all ways except perhaps in harassing his teammate, and as such the man couldn’t stand Spies and their habits. Among other things, this included stunning good looks, the ability to disappear and appear at will, and pithy one-liner punchlines to a killing joke. The man certainly gave him a pointed look when he rolled down the window to smoke a few hours ago. That didn’t stop him, because frankly, anything that annoyed someone was worth doing in Spy’s little black book, and the rushing air helped tune out that awful music Engineer was playing. 

Transport between bases was… varied at best. For long distances, or instances where they would stay at their destination for a long time, they usually took railcars. Spy preferred it that way. While it was less comfortable, there were plenty of opportunities and places to dodge his colleagues for a quiet smoke.

He hated travelling between bases by road most of all. Had he been able to drive his own car for the excursions, it would have been bearable. At least then he would have been in charge of his own fate, and able to stop at a gas station with the sure knowledge that when he left it wouldn’t somehow be on fire or in ruins, courtesy of his coworkers. 

In recent times, all nonessential vehicles were loaded onto rail cars for later delivery and everyone got loaded into a few vehicles. Often this meant Sniper’s camper van, Engineer’s truck, and Medic’s van. His coworkers were loud, in some cases more than a little unhinged, and, in Soldier’s case, the door was not only unhinged but all the way across the room. Spending hours trapped in close quarters with little to do and no leg room was tantamount to homicide. 

Due to this, there were arrangements. Who could drive with who, and in what vehicle. It varied week by week, depending on who was at each other’s throats for what reason. He wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Pauling had a flowchart so she could keep track. It wasn’t often that he and the Engineer rode together. 

Most days he enjoyed a clever jab at the Engineer’s benefit. But, being as they were on an important mission for Miss Pauling, some discretion was due. 

He let the conversation drop and rested his head back on the seat. For a while, the rumble of the engine provided a backdrop to silent contemplation. 

“Hmph.”

Spy tipped his head forward again, massaging his neck. “Do you have something to say, Engineer?”

The man’s expression soured, as if dealing with something distasteful. “Do you think this is related?” he asked, glancing at Spy. 

“To ze missing briefcase? Possibly,” he shrugged. “In both cases, our thief was extremely good at covering their tracks and privy to ze inner workings of our involvement with RED. It’s a logical conclusion.”

The Engineer shook his head. “Would you work with me here, Spah? I’m tryin’ to see why anyone would want footage of our scuffles with BLU. I can understand someone wantin’ ta get a look at our gadgets and weapons, but our files? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Those files contain our biographies, backgrounds, personality tendencies, and notes on specific acts during our employment histories, including our fighting styles. To the right person, that is worth something.” He had read his once, a while ago. While it was by no means complete, it contained a few of his more well-known escapades. He was grateful that it missed that one mission in Sarajevo, as well as a few in Vienna.

“Sure, it’s got information about us and our families in there, but the Administrator keeps that locked down. She’s pretty protective of what’s hers.” The Engineer replied bitterly.

“Hence Miss Pauling’s continued employment,” Spy agreed. “I would consider that perhaps our mystery thief is working towards the possibility that someday… the Administrator will no longer be a complication.” He hoped that sounded vague enough. Despite the lack of radio reception in the area and Engineer’s constant attention to possible tampering with his tools and machines, Spy wouldn’t put it past the Administrator to be listening in on the conversation. 

The Engineer narrowed his eyes as he caught the implications of Spy’s words. “You think that someone’s trying to put an end to her?”

Spy made a noncommittal gesture. “Whoever is doing this seems to be operating under the belief that any retaliation from the Administrator for their actions, should she find out who is doing it, is inconsequential. From that, one could conclude that there is a power play at stake.”

Not to mention that whoever was at fault was powerful indeed, to make the briefcase completely disappear. He had made his own inquiries after the briefcase, as a matter of course, but his contacts had turned up nothing. Given the nature of his profession, he had given little more than vague and enigmatic responses to the now deceased Director, but any piece of information was a valuable gem in the right hands. Given what he had done in the past, the file would certainly make for an interesting read.

“And do ya think it’s some mafia sniffing around, like Miss Pauling said?” 

Spy smirked. “So many questions, Laborer. Do you really think that I hold all of ze answers?”

The Engineer’s hand tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “If ya do, ya ain’t talkin’,” He said heatedly. There was a pause. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Neither of them even considered raising the possibility of BLU being the culprit. The Engineer held firmly the belief that the BLUs wouldn’t know where their asses were if you showed them, preferably with a laser guided missile, and Spy knew that something of this caliber wouldn’t even occur to them. Something of this scope required careful planning.

“Evidently not.” Spy quipped, unable to help himself. He glanced over at the Engineer’s expression, and decided to humor the Engineer. “Mafias are unique. It would depend on ze mafia, their relation to the Administrator, and their motive. If ze Administrator was no longer able to interfere in their affairs as she felt necessary, I’m sure that it would be ample motivation to some. The real question is, who would have the resources?”

Spy waved a hand. “It most likely isn’t one of ze local groups, especially ze smaller ones. Sure, zey have ze motive, but it’s too easy to look at ze local markets and see what is being moved where. Information and technology cost money, and someone is moving around a lot of both to keep zis charade up.” He lit a cigarette smugly, ignoring Engineer’s eye roll. “No, zis is most likely a large organization, if any. The Bratva, Yakuza, and Italian mafias are all very powerful. They could have somezing to gain from slipping ze noose. And who knows, maybe zey could be putting aside their differences for a common goal?”

The Engineer chuckled. “That’s a pretty far reach, Spah. You and I are livin’ proof that the right man in the right place can do a heckuva lot of damage.”

“Naturally.” Spy conceded. “But consider zis: someone is always one step ahead of us. Not only do we not know what ze end goal is, we do not know where zey will strike next. For someone like ze Administrator, who thrives on control, zat does not bode well.” He took a drag on the cigarette.

“In regards to other parties that would benefit from… a shift in power, I’m sure that ze Australians would rather their trademark metal stay on ze continent.”

Australium. The secret and jealously guarded source of Australia’s success. Boosting both brain and brawn, the mysterious metal had been the source of all new advances in technology, courtesy of the only country where it was found. With Australium, anything was possible. The Administrator jealously hoarded all that she could get.

Engineer cleared his throat. “I don’t blame ‘em. Anything she wants can’t be for a good reason.”

“Indeed.” He put his head back on the seat and closed his eyes, indicating to his coworker that the conversation was over.

They rode in silence, the Engineer digesting what Spy had said. Having worked with the man for this long, he knew that this was as good as he was going to get; nothing could get the spook to talk when he didn’t see a reason to. 

Even with Spy’s educated guesses though, they were no closer to finding the two-time thief. He reached over and turned the radio on, giving it a tap for good measure. It crackled to life.

_ “Someone told me long ago, there’s a calm before the storm. I know, it’s been coming for some time…” _

\-----------------------------------------------------------

_ Dustbowl _

_ RED Base _

 

The late morning sun beat down as the Engineer cracked the roof trapdoor open, climbing out onto the hot metal. Muffled cursing erupted from the attic and he knelt back down, snagging the handle of his toolbox out of Spy’s arms as he stumbled on the rickety steps. 

“Holdin’ up there, pardner?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

Spy meticulously climbed up the rest of the steps onto the roof, brushing off his collar. “I am fine, _pardner,”_ he replied acidly.

Patches of the rusty antenna twinkled in the bright light, refracting at odd angles. Rolling his shoulders, the Engineer hoisted his toolbox onto his shoulder and approached the structure with Spy in tow. 

The structure resembled a windmill water tower in many ways, possibly as an attempt to disguise its true purpose, although of all places to site a _water pumping device_ the roof was definitely the last place the Engineer would consider. More likely it was a repurposed structure, but the big dish on top wasn’t what you would call subtle. At its base was a metal box roughly the size of a couch bolted to the roof. Cables wound from the box up the supports to where they hooked into the dish, supplying the Administrator with footage of everything that happened on base. 

The thought that the Administrator could see _everything_ that happened made his spine crawl, but that feeling was intermixed with the thought that if she saw everything, she also saw things that made him want to bleach his eyeballs if he was unfortunate enough to witness it. Some of the things Soldier did… he shut down that thought before it could go any further. Nope. Not goin’ there.

Attached to the metal box was the power meter, and sure enough, there was another transmitter jammed through the cover. Engineer felt a weight settle into his stomach, slimy and cold. 

The Engineer sighed. “Damn. I wish she wasn’t right about this.” He knelt down next to the electrical meter and opened his toolbox. “Let’s see what we can do about gettin’ it out intact this time.”

He pulled out a screwdriver and started removing the screws holding the meter box plating together. He heard the sound of Spy lighting a cigarette and looked up at him, frowning. 

Engineer gave him a scathing look. “There’s a spare in my toolbox you can use, ya know.”

Spy sighed, rolling his eyes. “And why would I do that, _Laborer_?” he said, with emphasis on the mocking title.

At that moment the Engineer would have gladly taken a spanner and smacked Spy a few times, just until he felt a little better. Anyone else and he might have reconsidered- he was a Southern gentleman after all- but after a few years of working together, the snake knew exactly how to push his buttons.

“Well, I figure the sooner we git this done, the better,” he drawled. “Don’t tell me you’re actually havin’ fun.”

Spy snorted, reaching into the toolbox. “Obviously not.”

The two of them worked quickly, dismantling the cover of the meter so as to not disturb the transmitter jammed into the side of the box. The light on its body, which blinked softly at the Badlands base, was dim. Engineer took that as a bad omen, but in order to even touch it he’d have to disable the power for a few minutes. Inside the meter box was a series of switches and lights. He pulled a note out of his pocket and consulted Miss Pauling’s instructions, written to give as little information unimportant to the mission at hand. While he understood that most of this stuff was confidential and all, it sure would’ve been nice to know what not to press, and what happened when it was. Reaching forward, he tripped the appropriate breaker and the entire display went dark.

Carefully, he tapped his screwdriver against the transmitter needle. No sparks jumped to the metal, but just in case he grabbed it with his gloved hand before pulling it slowly out of the box. Metal on metal screeched and Spy backed up with a wince, dropping the screwdriver into the toolbox like a society lady disposing of a dirty handkerchief. 

Half a foot of metal slid out before the Engineer could remove the device and take a look at the hole. He whistled low. The needle attached to the transmitter had been jammed right into a cable, and mechanical hand or not there was a good chance he would have been electrocuted if he hadn’t shut off the power. Something had punched that into there with a lot of force, just like the last one. 

Spy sidled over to him and held a hand out, waiting. Engineer handed it over to him, and turned to fix the damaged cable. Spy took out his butterfly knife and deftly inserted into the narrow casing joint, popping the metal off with a sharp twist. 

Spy inspected the interior. “Mmm. Merde.[1]” 

Engineer looked out from wrapping the cable with tape. “What do you see?”

Spy chuckled mirthlessly. “Once again, we are fools.”

Engineer stood up. “I really wish you’d spit it out, Spah. Your smoke and mirrors act is givin’ me a headache.”

Spy snapped his butterfly knife closed and slipped it into his suit, gesturing with a free hand. “Come see for yourself.”

The Engineer approached and saw that within the casing there was nothing but a melted mass of circuitry and plastic, especially at the base. The weight in his stomach froze. Some kind of power overload in the device had done so much damage that the whole thing was half melted. In other words, useless. He swore and took the pieces from Spy.

“We turned off the power, it shouldn’t’ve fried the circuits!”

Spy raised an eyebrow, frowning. “Or perhaps someone knew zat ze jig was up. When you removed ze first one, zat could ‘ave tipped off its owner, would it not?”

He exhaled between his teeth, releasing pent up frustration. Just for once, he was sure that they would have found some answers. Now it seemed that they were back at square one, at least at this base. “Yeah, probably. It was jammed into a power source big enough to fry a man, so there was probably a surge protector. It’d take maybe a few seconds for this thing to be a goner if someone could shut off the surge protector remotely.”

“If this were mine, I would make sure of it. The best way to cover your tracks is to leave none behind. Zere is nozhing I can do here.”

Spy turned and picked up the piece of meter box cover that the transmitter was jammed through, turning the metal over in his hands. The edges of the hole were jagged, as if one sharp movement jammed the needle through. It put him in mind of Scout actually, holding something moderately sharp in a fist and slamming it into a wall. This was not an action born of finesse. 

The sounds of metal banging made him look up. The Engineer was assembling the meter box again, using force born of frustration. It impressed Spy. It took considerable circumstances for the Engineer to show irritation around him. He suspected that it was a matter of pride.

“Ya gonna stand there and watch, or ya gonna help me get this back together?” Engineer snapped. “We’ve got to check a few other bases today and I’d like to get back home before sunset. We’ll take the paperweight with us and figure it out later.”

Spy rolled his eyes, and the two of them put the box back together. Within ten minutes, they were on the road again. 

And so the rest of the day went. Base after base. Gravel Pit. Teufort. Badwater Basin. All of them had a transmitter. All of them were fried, and any information they could have held gone. 

Only the pieces of an ever growing puzzle were left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] French: “Shit”
> 
> The first song that plays on the radio, I Should’ve Known Better by Nickel Creek, is not period consistent (released in 2002), but I really liked how the lyrics fit. The second one is historically accurate; Have You Ever Seen the Rain by Creedence Clearwater Revival (released 1970). I considered All Along the Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix (released 1967) as well. There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief…
> 
> My boyfriend has a butterfly knife. They’re fun for tricks if you practice, but I recommend getting a trainer for that. He ended up getting one after a Noodle Incident involving waking me up to a boyfriend's bloody hand saying “I don’t want you to freak out, but I screwed up…” Thankfully, a hospital visit was averted due to his coworker being an EMT. If you’re going to wake someone up, wash the blood off first.
> 
> I looked for ages to try and figure out how someone could manually steal internet/encrypted video. Apparently it’s really difficult to physically do that by using tools, rather than electronically. So I ended up having to modify a transmitter into an interceptor that could draw electrical power off of whatever it’s jammed into. Satellite broadcasting was invented in the 60s, so thankfully that part is historically correct. 
> 
> It was frustrating to try being historically correct on the tech because not only was I not alive in time to learn about it firsthand, the internet was being unhelpful with all sorts of types of technology. This includes when police databases went digital and the types of broadcasting available in the 70s. Let’s hope that there is never the legal need to go through my internet history.
> 
> Much of the Administrator’s power comes from information. The information to control governments, to manipulate the system, blackmail high level people into cooperating. Mafias are tolerated; as long as they play by Ad’s rules they are left alone. I first saw this in The Stray, a story mentioned earlier. There is always the chance that mafias were sick of her controlling them (as well as the rest of the world) tried to work together to get some information on her and everyone else.


	11. Find The Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Canon-Compliant Swearing.

A small house, with a small purple truck parked outside. Fake flowers in the window, and a front door with slightly peeling white paint. Inside, a clock with a cute cat face ticked quietly in the kitchen. 

The front door opened and Miss Pauling stumbled tiredly inside. She kicked off her shoes, relieved to feel the carpet underneath her nylons. The bag dropped next, releasing a cloud of dust. Perfect.  She turned on a light and glanced at the clock in the kitchen. Its cheerful face told her that it was late. Really late. She realized muzzily that the door was still open; she pushed it shut and locked it. Not that she had to worry about something trying to kill her in her sleep, but it was oh so inconvenient to have to bury a dead body she wasn’t paid to make. 

When she had gone back to report to the Administrator, she wasn’t happy. As in, her boss was furious. Another dead end, another cold trail. Never mind that during their meeting, Miss Pauling was still in shock and bleeding from being on the wrong end of an explosion; once again the Administrator was denied information she so greatly desired, and the Administrator didn’t take no for an answer. 

Speaking of which, she should probably clean out those cuts. A shower sounded nice. But so did sleep. Maybe she could sleep in the shower? Yeah, that sounded nice. She could eat later.

She dumped her keys on the end table amidst the papers cluttering the surface, and the whole pile slowly, gracefully, slid off onto the floor with a thump. With a groan, Miss Pauling flopped down on the floor to pick it up. Bending over took too much effort, and as tired as she was, it might as well end up with her hitting the floor face first. 

Bills… newspapers… obituaries, because when you are the reason an obituary was written, you really want to make sure that the cause of death isn’t suspicious… and, oh, look, a paycheck. She needed to get groceries again, she aimlessly remembered. 

She opened the envelope. She could tell by its weight that there was something more to the package than just a check, and it paid to keep track of her boss’s latest instructions. Sure enough, inside there were instructions for her and the upcoming week. People to kill, bodies to belt-sand fingerprints off of, and so on. More things to do on top of her current problem.

Miss Pauling sighed and pulled herself up using the table, dropping the pile back on top. She went upstairs and started the shower. Her stockings came off first, more rips than fabric at this point. It would be nice to go _one week_ without ruining a pair of stockings. The dress came off next, full of dirt and twigs. If she soaked it, which she would have to in order to salvage it, it might be wearable the next time she did laundry. She shook out her hair, dislodging a few burrs. 

The hot water came as a relief, soaking sore muscles and stinging cuts. It was nice to relax for a minute, forget her long painful day. A long painful day that would lead to a long frustrating tomorrow. She thought about the heavy packet of papers in her paycheck. Everyone working for Team Fortress Industries, in one way or another, got those. Discreet packets to each employee containing information or new orders in one form or another, often under the guise of a shadow employer. In this way, the world silently turned. 

The weight. That was important. That was the difference between new instructions and following the previous ones. Couriers got them all the time. New locations, new descriptions, new items to transport. She soaped her hair and realized that her glasses were still on her face. She took them off and fumbled them to the side of the tub in the sudden blurriness. Dirty water cascaded to the drain, leaving trails that would dry to dust overnight. She’d have to clean the tub later. Just another thing, on top of the rest. At this rate, she’d be lucky to sit down by Thursday.

Most employees didn’t get the thick packets that couriers did. That much weight cost a lot in postage. If she was in the area and not currently covered in _something_ , she sometimes brought the envelopes to the post office herself. You could always tell which ones were for couriers, being the ones that were the heaviest. 

Miss Pauling was exhausted. Beyond tired. Her boss was furious, she had way too much to do, and she knew that everything was going to hurt in a few hours. But something about that thought stuck with her. _You could always tell which ones were for couriers… because they were the heaviest._

It would probably make more sense in the morning. But right now, as she reached for a towel, she had the inkling of an idea. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

_ Badlands _

_ BLU Base _

 

BLU base was quiet. Today’s battle cancellation had left everyone with a lot of unexpected free time, and Heavy was determined to spend it on one of life’s greatest pleasures.

Medic’s forehead creased in concentration and he looked up at Heavy with a small smile. He seemed torn on what to do. Heavy smiled back in satisfaction of a job well done. Finally!

After a moment, Medic moved a bishop from D5 to C4, capturing Heavy’s pawn. Perhaps not.

What better way to spend an afternoon than viciously crushing someone you care about in a game of chess?

Heavy groaned.

Medic reached over and patted his hand. “It’s ok, Heavy. It vas a good attempt.”

He grumbled a little, mentally modifying his strategy. Never mind that Medic had been playing for decades, Heavy was determined that one day he would conquer this little baby game. All his enemies would fall like tiny baby chess pieces that were so hard to keep on the wobbly, half singed board kept in a cubby far away from the kitchen ever since The Incident. Or at least, An Incident. With nine people possessing all manners of destruction and little sanity in some cases, it was common to see communal items in various states of damage or recent replacement.

In was peaceful in the kitchen, unusually so. Heavy hoped for the Doktor’s sake that the reason wasn’t something that would require him to do more work later. On days such as these, when a battle was suddenly postponed, teammates turned to interesting ways of passing the time. This included Explosive Base Jumping practice, Jarate Baseball, all manner of drinking and shooting, and combinations thereof. It was as if some of his coworkers considered a day without seeing their own blood a day without shining sun.

Heavy moved a rook from E1 to A1, capturing Medic’s promoted Queen, only to have it captured by an incoming black rook from A3. It was a necessary sacrifice, certainly, if unfortunate.

The sound of running footsteps in the hallway heralded the Scout, who burst into the kitchen with his regular turn of speed. He skidded, slowed, and sauntered over to the fridge. 

Medic rolled his eyes. “Must you run absolutely everyvhere, Herr Scout?”

Scout grinned and shrugged lazily. “Gotta keep practicing ta own people in battle. What, are you jealous?” He reached into the fridge, and with a careful detour around Heavy’s Sandvich, a lesson painfully learned, he grabbed a soda and slammed the door shut.

Heavy chuckled. King from F2 to D1, to avoid check. “Little baby man is good at running away on battlefield.”

“Speak for yourself, fatty.” He slung himself onto a chair facing backwards, arms resting on the back. Heavy did not mind if Scout watched, so long as he didn’t chatter constantly. When they inevitably kicked him out he was sure his luck would improve. 

There was silence for a moment as Scout watched the board. Medic moved his King from D7 to C6.

“You know what’s stupid?”

His move complete, Medic grinned at Scout. “Zhat seems like a loaded question.”

If Scout understood the insult, he ignored it. “You see Miss Pauling’s truck over at RED base? Every time one of our matches gets cancelled, she’s over there.”

He did have a point. Usually match cancellations were rare, but within the last few months there had been quite a few of them. Heavy had previously dismissed the actions as RED being too weak to fight, but if even Scout had noticed it something must be amiss.

Heavy was amused. If there was one thing Scout was obsessed over, it was the Administrator’s assistant.

“You think she has something to do with it?” he asked.

Scout started fiddling with his dog tags. “I dunno man. Maybe she’s neg...negoshee… talking with RED’s boss?”

Heavy moved his King from E1 to D2, capturing Medic’s stupid rook. A crackling, fizzing noise hissed by the door, and Spy removed his cloak to light a cigarette. Medic had his back to the door and whipped around at the sound, alarmed. Once he recognized Spy he growled something impolite under his breath and turned back to the game. Some habits, such as staying alive, die hard. 

Spy snickered. “Good afternoon to you too, Doctor.”

Medic gave him a hard look. “You know I don’t like it vhen you show up like zhat.”

If he cared, you couldn’t tell. He shrugged and leaned against the wall with the air of someone who went where they wished, how they wished. “I’ve been here ze whole time.”

“I’m sure you vere.” Medic grumbled, moving his remaining rook from C1 to C4 and taking Heavy’s pawn.

“In any case, you have a point Scout. Miss Pauling has been visiting RED quite a lot recently,” Spy remarked.

“I do? I mean,” Scout smoothed his hair back and stuck his chest out. “Yeah, I’m even bettah at watchin’ the RED’s than Sniper.” 

He was so caught up in himself that he didn’t notice the mischievous glint in Spy’s eye. Something was going to happen, and soon. Heavy slid the much abused chessboard away from Scout protectively.

“Oh yes, Scout. In fact, she’s been going over there quite a lot.”

The effect that his comment had on Scout was instantaneous. Spy suddenly had his full attention.

“So ya know why she’s there?” He blurted out.

There it was again, that mischievous smirk. “I could only guess. After all, we aren’t allowed into RED territory during ceasefires you know.”

Scout gave him a dark, disbelieving look, dropping his dog tags back down to his chest. “That’s a load’a shit, Spy, and you know it. C’mon man, you’re the fancy suit wearer around here, sneakin’ around stabbing people is your thing. What’s she doing talkin’ to RED?” he demanded. 

“Who knows? She could be helping ze Scout fire his pistol.” He wagged his eyebrows.

It didn’t take long for Scout to catch his meaning. He flushed red, his expression ugly. “No way Spy! You’re just makin’ that up.”

Spy’s grin was evil. “Well, I could check if you wanted. She’s zere at odd hours some days, even late into ze nights, and it’s awfully quiet. What else could she be doing? Maybe he is showing her how his scattergun’s aim is?”

Scout stood up and roughly pushed his chair aside, giving Spy a rude gesture. “You’re freakin’ gross, ya know that? She has standards. And when she’s ready, I can give her the world.”

Off in the peanut gallery, Heavy quietly moved his bishop from C5 to D4. Let Spy tease the little baby man about his crush; he had a game to win.

“A small world, certainly,” Spy replied. “Perhaps with zis, we will solve ze mystery of how RED Scout makes Mad Milk? Or better yet, why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Scout pushed himself off the table and swung at Spy, ready to punch him into next week. As he passed Heavy however, the big man hauled himself up and wrapped gigantic hands around Scout to hold him back. Scout struggled for a moment then stopped, unwilling to give Heavy a reason to throw him out of the room. Literally. Like, through the wall. It took forever to fix the hole last time.

Medic sighed and righted a few fallen over pieces. The last thing he wanted to do today was patch another dummkopf up. “Scout, vhy don’t you go outside and do some laps? Zhe fresh air is good for you. Maybe she vill see you,” he said in a thinly veiled attempt to keep Scout out of a brawl one spark away from igniting.

Scout flashed a glance to Medic, pursing his lips and exhaling violently from his nose. He flashed a venomous glare to Spy, who returned his look with amused indifference. 

“Doc, stay out of this. You,” Scout jabbed a finger at Spy. “Go to Hell. Go fuck a Pyro or somethin’.” With that, he broke free of Heavy’s grasp and stormed out of the room.

“At least I won’t be alone” Spy quipped. He couldn’t help baiting the Scout; he made it so easy. All taunting aside, the boy did have a good point. Spy would have to confer with Sniper in order to confirm the interesting phenomenon.

Heavy returned to the board and looked at the possible moves he could make. If he moved his rook and took Medic’s rook when it captured his bishop, Medic was free to promote a pawn. Even if he took that piece, Medic’s king would take the rook, leaving him just a king left and enemy pawns ready to promote. No matter what, he could see nothing but moves that led to Medic’s victory. All it took was a glance at Medic’s smug grin to confirm, and he let his head fall forward with a thud, scattering the pieces of his checkmate. How could this happen!

When he lifted his head, the Spy has vanished. While the sting of defeat was great, he welcomed both Scout’s and Spy’s departure. Perfect for a rematch.  His eyes narrowed as he looked to Medic.

“Again.”

Medic smiled fondly and started placing pieces back on the board. “Of course, mein liebe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over the course of writing the story, I wrote myself little notes on the music I was listening to, whatever little detail I wanted to remember for publishing notes later on, and so forth. Apparently I was listening to Sweet Dreams by Marilyn Manson when I wrote Miss Pauling’s part. Ok then. My memory isn’t the best, so when I read these notes sometimes I feel like I’m meeting a stranger who just happens to also be me.
> 
> Her part was also heavily inspired by PreludeInZ’s Miss Pauling (archiveorourown). I relate a lot to Miss Pauling, so she’s a breeze to write (compared to Soldier and company). This story ended up being Pauling centric, but she’s a good character to write for. In any case, the purple truck idea is Prelude’s.
> 
> “Find the Lady” is also called the Three Card Monte, and is a rigged game in which the victim is tricked into betting money on the assumption that they can find the right card (typically the queen of hearts). Find the lady… find the lady… to quote Terry Pratchett, “It was the heart of any scam or fiddle -- keep the punter uncertain, or, if he is certain, make him certain of the wrong thing” (Going Postal).
> 
>  Mad Milk is an item Scout uses in game, a bottle of _something_ white that he can use to douse a teammate on fire. There are a few theories on what it actually is. I'm leaving that one alone.
> 
> I based the chess game off of Spassky vs Fischer World Chess Championship 1972, Game 13. In a comic series (from a completely different fandom) I’m in love with, the artist uses scenes from that game in order to create a realistic game. I’m not a chess enthusiast, but I’m told it was a weird match. There was a video animation made a while back called The End of the Line showing that Heavy and Medic do indeed play chess, and that Medic is far better at it.  
> You can read the comic here: (http://zarla.deviantart.com/art/Not-that-I-think-about-this-a-lot-or-anything-643493410)  
> You can watch the match here: (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1uoTaroXG28) 
> 
> Heavy was trying to say “It was as if some of his coworkers considered a day without seeing their own blood a day without sunshine.” He has a shaky grasp of English sayings. I didn’t have any particular Incident in mind, but with nine men as crazy as they are in one base, something is bound to happen. 
> 
> There was a little subtle shipping happening there, if you caught it. But given the evidence I have seen in the game voice lines and Valve’s videos, I have come to the conclusion that they are a little more than friends. 
> 
> This marked the 50 page mark for me, a milestone I had never reached before in any story. 
> 
> The innuendos are brought to you courtesy of my boyfriend.


	12. Hindsight

At three PM on a Friday, the Post Office was as close to bustling as any small town public building could be. Miss Pauling had chosen the circumstances of her visit carefully. She closed the door of the nondescript vehicle, and surreptitiously smoothed back the fake US Postal Inspector sticker that had started peeling away from the door. The badge swung heavily against her chest and she steeled herself for what was to come.

Back straight, chin held high, she strode past the long lines to harried postal workers behind the counter. A middle aged man with short grey hair gave her a sideways look while dealing with his customer, a look that turned concerned when he saw the badge. The plate by his station proclaimed his name to be Steve. She deftly inserted herself in the line as the lady in front of her left.

“Good afternoon,” she said just as he started to open his mouth. Years of experience had taught her that if you wanted to take charge of the conversation, you had to be the first to speak. “I’d like to speak with Mr. McGee. I presume that he is here today?”

Steve blinked a little at her. “A-ah, yes. We weren’t expecting another inspection so soon. Is there a problem?”

And that, right there, was the issue. No matter how convincing you looked, if people started using their brains for once, often at the most inconvenient time, that’s when the problems would start. This called for improvisation.

Hold on. Another inspection?

Miss Pauling pinned that thought to the side and snapped. “Well obviously, yes, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. You want to see my credentials? Sure, fine, of course. Never mind that a man is missing, possibly because of this post office.”

As she talked, she reached into her pants pocket and pulled out an ID badge, flipping it briefly just so that the clerk could get a glimpse of her face on the badge. Never mind that she had printed it out at a TFI office before coming here, it would hopefully hold up under anything but close inspection.

“Do you have any more questions, or can I start asking a few of my own, such as whether or not I can talk to a mail handler? Mr. McGee would be preferable, but at this point anyone would do. This is a matter of federal security,” she said.

The clerk looked a little stunned, and internally Miss Pauling felt a little bad for him. The official story was that the courier was still missing, having gone on a solo hiking trip in the Badlands. As soon as officials declared him dead, they could probably leave a few of his remains somewhere noticeable and pretend that he died of exposure a mile from civilization. The entire line had gone quiet at her tone, and a cough from someone behind Miss Pauling jolted him into action.

“Uh, yeah, he should be out back. Right this way, Special Agent.”

He held open the little swinging door between the counters, and she stepped through. Steve pointed to the grey door separating the front counter from the sorting area. “If you head on back there you should be able to find him.”

“Thank you,” she replied shortly. She could feel sweat running down her back and through her shirt underneath the postal inspector jacket she wore, despite how thin the material was. At least with this uniform, no one batted an eye to see her carrying a firearm. The perks of posing as a federal agent.

What did they mean by another inspection? She knew that this place hadn’t been inspected officially in a long time. Little places like this didn’t receive a lot of attention, which was a prime reason why Miss Pauling sometimes used it to send sensitive packages. But, she could probably use this to her advantage.

She found McGee out back, among boxes and bins of letters, magazines, and packages. He was an older man like Steve, with large boxy glasses and a medium build. He looked up at her approach with mild surprise, turning to apprehension when he saw the patch on her jacket and the badge around her neck.

“Hello there. I’m guessing that our last inspection didn’t go well?” McGee asked, setting down a bundle of letters.

“That is actually what I came to talk about with you. I’m here to investigate the possibility that someone has impersonated a postal inspector in order to tamper with the mail.” The irony of the situation was laughable. “Can you tell me anything about the last time this place saw an inspector?”

McGee’s expression turned distant, and he held up a finger as he thought about the question. She felt a little thrill of hope that perhaps he was there to witness the source of their troubles.

“Hmmm, yeah, I was there when he came in a couple of months ago. Older guy, small, long hair. He showed me an ID and said something about mail fraud. Like, he had to check the weight of a few letters. I let him use a scale, and went off to do some sorting on the other side of the room. After a while he left. I can’t say that I really remember his name. Maybe it'll come to me. He didn’t really say much, to be honest,” McGee replied.

Miss Pauling was appalled at the lack of security in the building. But, she supposed, that was exactly what she had just taken advantage of to get in here. It was amazing the places a clipboard and an air of authority could get you. Once you were past the initial defenses, people just assumed that you were supposed to be there and left you alone.

She took out a notebook and started writing in it, for the look of the thing. She was here on a supposed investigation, after all.

“And did he open any of the envelopes?” she asked.

“I didn’t see him, but now that I think of it, he did go into the break room out back for a little bit. We have a kettle out there, and I’m sure you know what can be done with those.”

She did, unfortunately. Hold the seal in the steam for a little while, and it’d peel open easily. You could open the envelope, read it, and seal it back up with no one the wiser. Their thief could have easily waltzed in here, found the letters heavy enough to be for couriers, read whatever he wanted, sealed them, and left.

It didn’t matter that the couriers weren’t really told much about the package besides where and who they had to bring it to. In fact, the most important information had the least details. All the imposter would have to do is pick the vaguest orders, travel to the coordinates, and go from there.

Miss Pauling’s stomach lurched as she thought of all the envelopes he could have read. How many missions were compromised? How many agents were at risk? How many locations and passwords were compromised? They would have to go through the orders of every envelope that had been sent to this office two months ago to know. So many people would have to be given new identities, so many operatives might have to be extracted…

“Ma’am? Special Agent? Are you alright?”

She realized that she was gripping her pencil to the point where it was cracking. She cleared her throat, focusing on him. “Yes, I will be fine, thank you. Can you show me where he was looking through the mail?”

“Of course, it’s this way.” He led her through the aisles to the bins of envelopes. They were sorted by weight, and he gestured to a bin with heavier letters.

“This is where he was going through the bins.” McGee paused. “You know, I thought he was the real thing. We were just doing what we were trained to, you know?” he said defensively.

Miss Pauling felt a twinge of guilt. “I understand entirely, Mr. McGee. I can’t tell you much, but I’m following up on the possibility that some mail was tampered with here. I’m sure that you did what you thought was right.”

McGee looked a little relieved. “Yeah, thanks. Do you have an idea who did it?”

Miss Pauling had no idea. Two months was a long time to try and remember details from, especially details of a person you knew for ten minutes and didn’t pay much attention to. People were terrible eyewitnesses. So many of them went through life with their brains set on ‘simmer’, not really paying attention to those little details that could mean the difference between solving a mystery and a trail going cold.

But, no matter how well you paid attention, sometimes these things were solved entirely by chance. A random passing by a security camera, a car breaking down, the sun shining just the right way… so many crimes were solved because of something being in the right place at the right time. On the same flip of that coin, countless more went unsolved simply because all of the details didn’t fall into place at the right time.

Miss Pauling was starting to feel like this was one of those times.

All she had to go on was an old guy who needed a haircut- and probably got one after that stunt- who even if they had a name was probably fake. There was a chance that it was the same mad that killed Cooper, but who knew? That was another dead end; it would be madness to try to make a connection like that.

She realized that he was still waiting for an answer.

Miss Pauling sighed. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. Inquiries are proceeding. Do you have any security cameras here, by chance?”

McGee seemed taken aback. “Well, no. This isn’t exactly a bank, you know.”

The taste of frustration was bitter in her mouth. “Alright. I had to ask.”

“Do you need anything else?” He was hovering, which she took as a sign that he was taking security a little more seriously. Regardless, Team Fortress Industries would have to find a new way of sending orders.

“No, thank you for your time,” she replied.

He smiled, relieved. “I’m glad that I could be of service.”

He escorted her back to the door. The dry heat outside was a relief after passing the lines of staring people waiting in the lobby, and she slumped against the steering wheel for a minute to compose herself. The Administrator was going to be _furious_.

At the very least, she could report on where the leak came from. That in itself might save the lives of a few clerks, especially when the Administrator was in a vengeful mood.

But until this whole mess was unwrapped, nothing would be enough.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------

 

_Unknown Location_

_Team Fortress Industries_

 

Miss Pauling shifted her weight quietly, grateful that she had chosen to wear flats today. The cup of coffee that she had placed by the Administrator went disregarded, the steam ghostlike in the light of the computer screens. She waited patiently for the Administrator to speak.

The way she was brooding, staring at those camera feeds, it might be a while. She was doing that a lot more nowadays. If the Administrator ever got up to use the bathroom, or went home to sleep, she did it when Miss Pauling didn’t notice.

Miss Pauling had hoped that when she brought back news of how the courier was found and killed that it might redirect the Administrator, or at least bring some kind of resolution. If anything, it made things worse.

If she was being honest, and agreeing with conclusions made while lying awake in bed at night, she knew that this wasn’t a matter of being angry over a theft. No, this was a matter of _control._ Someone, somewhere, did something that the Administrator didn’t like. And she could do nothing to stop them. She couldn’t even prevent further thefts, displays of power so clearly evident in the way that no traces were left behind.

If anything, the fact that they knew how the courier died was an insult. Such a small and seemingly insignificant detail, exploited in a way that no one had considered possible. The weight of the envelopes. Who could predict that? Who even had a mind capable of piecing together supposedly useless observations into such a lethal conclusion?

As much as Miss Pauling would have loved to believe that none of the recent events were related, more and more she was forced to make some conclusions of her own. Several times, a thief had watched and waited for who knows how long, certainly long enough to plan and act and be well on his way before anyone knew something was amiss.

That kind of thinking was part of how Team Fortress Industries worked. Stick a stiletto just the right place, and you achieve your goals much more efficiently than any action with a sledgehammer. Twist words, twist relationships, twist promises. It was amazing how few words were required to kill something… people, friendships, or illusions, simply with a few well-placed words. Control the flow of information, direct it how you wished, and the world would follow.

Information is power, and someone out there had quite a bit of information that they shouldn’t.

Suddenly, someone out there was someone better at the game than they were.

“Do you see what I see, Miss Pauling?” The Administrator said suddenly.

Miss Pauling snapped to attention and looked at the screens. There was a battle about to begin, and the Administrator plugged a cord into the control panel. Out at Badlands, she knew that both teams would be hearing “Mission begins in ten seconds” countdown over the intercom.

On one screen, the RED Spy reached over and lit a cigarette on the Pyro’s pilot light. Two seconds later, the BLU Spy did the same. Were they to learn that they both shared this pre-battle habit with each other, they would be appalled. In another screen, the BLU Medic was looking dead at the camera with a considering eye. Across the battlefield, the RED Sniper was tossing and catching his kukri, a scowl pointed at the screen.

“The men are ready for the last control point battle?” she ventured.

Her boss plugged in another cord which would play an order over the intercom telling the men to begin fighting. The screens started to come to life with scenes of combat. “Hmph. No. No, Miss Pauling, what we see here are nine very angry men, and nine very curious men. RED is afraid, and that turns to anger very easily. They don’t know who has stolen their information and spied on them, so soon that anger will displace to us. BLU senses the disturbances RED is experiencing, and wants to know more.”

The Administrator leaned back, rested her arms on the rests, and folded her hands. “What we have here is a situation where the men have had too much time on their hands. Idle hands lead to idle minds. Given time, this will drive them to talk, and further on to action.”

She reached over and picked up the coffee cup, taking a small sip. It was subtle, but from long hours of watching and waiting on the Administrator, Miss Pauling could see the fury trapped beneath the surface of her indifferent facade.

“I want this stopped. Obviously they aren’t challenged enough here, if they have time to talk.”

The Administrator placed the coffee down and picked up a piece of paper, handing it to Miss Pauling. “These are your orders. I want them executed to the letter,” she snapped.

Miss Pauling look down at the paper. First and foremost was a full transfer order to Gravel Pit base. Beyond that was a series of battle schedules designed so that the men would be fighting for the next fifty days straight, without a single day of rest. Included in that order were provision orders, to prevent the men from having a reason to leave their bases.

She winced. The future prospects of having to tell the men this news brought the phrase “don’t shoot the messenger” easily to mind. But you didn’t say no to your boss, especially when she was in a mood.

“Yes, Madam Administrator,” she said.

“Do not disappoint me, Miss Pauling.”

A chill ran through her. It didn’t take a genius to understand the implications of her words. “O-of course not, Madam Administrator,” Miss Pauling stammered.

She tried to tell herself as she left that she was not fleeing, because that would mean that she didn’t trust the Administrator not to kill her. It was natural to be deathly afraid of failing your boss, right?

Right?

 

 

The same actions, over and over. Fight, win, lose… repeat. What did a victory mean when it could be lost, _would_ be lost, in a matter of time? Each battle was a Sisyphean struggle, and like Sisyphus, all of their efforts were for naught.

It’s hard to care when there’s no point. Exhaustion has a way of grinding down the strongest of wills. Thoughts become limited to getting through the day, reaching the next meal, succumbing to that next blessed moment of rest.

By the time the men were granted that precious ceasefire, the concerns of the past were forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Postal Inspectors are referred to as “Special Agents”. I borrowed mail handler McGee’s name from Chief Postal Inspector Martin McGee, who during the 1960s and 1970s was known as “The Top Sleuth” and led his department in exposing and prosecuting many cases of mail fraud. My mum actually once worked at a Post Office; they sorted by weight, then by size. 
> 
> Miss Pauling frequently uses a tactic known as the Bavarian Fire Drill in order to achieve goals. It’s a social engineering tactic where you get what you need done by introducing a problem and then taking charge, and your authority goes unquestioned. I use it a lot in my writing, but given what I’ve seen in comics, this appears to Miss Pauling’s standard modus operandi.
> 
> A crime being solved because someone was in the right place, at the right time, is a shout out to an internal dialogue Terry Pratchett’s Vimes made in Men at Arms (pg 101 if you’re curious).
> 
> It was during this chapter that my beta remarked that upon reading Miss Pauling wondering who had a mind capable of putting together useless observations into a lethal conclusion, she immediately thought “Duh, Grey Mann”. It’s the point in the story where something is so bluntly obvious to the reader, yet the characters remain clueless.
> 
> And that’s actually the point. Hindsight and future knowledge is 20/20. From their perspective, they’re finding things out months after the plans were enacted and loose ends were cut. Grey Mann was last seen in 1850, and pretty much the only person that has heard of him is the Administrator. She suspects, but 100 years is a long time. He’s always one step ahead of them, and he’s remarkably good at hiding.
> 
> It was actually quite a challenge to make their inability to figure out who the culprit was somewhat believable. I hate stories where the writers purposefully make the characters complete idiots in order to keep them clueless. In canon, Grey takes everyone completely by surprise. I was originally going to have a shoutout to a writer I really like (shocker; there's more than one!) but I had to edit that detail out to keep with the ending.
> 
> I’ve had a lot of fun with a running gag in my stories where the Spy lights a cigarette from the Pyro’s pilot light just before a battle begins.
> 
> The working title used to be Sisyphus until my beta’s “duh” moment.
> 
> Now I can all of you guys thinking, “Hey, you promised me hover car chases and action, what’s the deal?” Worry not. This concludes the end of Arc Two. Arc Three is where everything starts coming together, and we wrap up the issues of the past two arcs. Arc Three’s issue… well let’s just say that it becomes a moot point in the end.


	13. Matryoshka Doll

It is commonly known that there are little crimes and big crimes. Jaywalking is not nearly held to the same standards as first degree murder.

As with crimes, there are little details and big details. The little details can seem huge, and the big details can sometimes be hardly seen. This does not mean that they are not important; just that from your standpoint you are too close to see how big they really are.

Take for example, corporations.

Corporations are infinitely complex, running on wheels within wheels in order to be financial powerhouses. Every little worker provides their own contribution to some heaving conglomerate, able to move money and people on a scale comparable to some militaries, and the end result is an international entity that many would struggle to consider in its entirety.

Beyond the face of a corporation, an office building, and their stock value if they are public, little can be seen beyond what that corporation tells you. In some cases what you really have is a shell corporation; something that allows business transactions to take place without actually having any real assets. These can be used to contain and conceal other corporations, so that if someone was properly motivated, they could create shell corporations owning shell corporations in some bizarre rendition of a Russian nesting doll.

At the root of shell corporations is the desire to move things around beneath the sight of prying eyes, often for purposes of tax evasion. There are other benefits, however.

Billions of dollars can seem quite small when broken up into little accounts, all transferring seemingly innocent amounts of money. Behind the scenes, all those little movements can add up.

A single central corporation, hidden under layers and layers of shells, can be impossibly difficult to find for if the searcher doesn’t know exactly what they are looking for. The head of such a corporation would be as elusive as smoke wisps.

Dispersed among small companies, seemingly buying and selling to each other, the movement of tons of raw materials and machinery can go unnoticed.

Red flags may only wave where there is a concentrated flurry of activity. Large movements of raw materials and money can be easily tracked; little transactions are far less noticeable.

A few grains of sand can fall here and there with little fanfare, but this action over time will move entire coastlines and raise deserts.

A few dollars here, a small shipment there… in this way, many things can be hidden.

The Administrator suspects who is meddling in her affairs. There is a strong possibility that he is dead, given that the last time anyone had heard from him was 1849. Nevertheless, the Administrator isn’t the kind of person to leave any stone unturned.  But by now, finding the culprit would be like looking for a sand grain when she should really be looking at the entire beach.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

_July, 1971_

_Dustbowl_

_RED Base_

 

Dust collected on the floor in a thin blanket, a cover only recently broken by footprints. The air was still stale; the team had just arrived. Later, the base would start to smell of sweat, smoke, and gunpowder. Doors cracked open to allow people and supplies to flood in- enough to fight a war.

Voices echoed in the empty halls. Tomorrow, they would be voices of desperation, anger, or triumph, but today they were of laughter and camaraderie.

“An’ then they all bolt[1] off like th’ pansies[2] they are, and I’m playin’ hidie[3] with ‘em,” Demoman’s voice grew closer.

Engineer chuckled in response. “Yeah, you’re telling me, pardner.”

“Naow, everybody says tha’ alcohol dunnae solve any problems, but I ain’t seen any that are solved by milk. A’ve found in cases like that, a Molotov’ll[4] sort the bastards out.”

“I’m sure that Pyro would agree with ya there.”

“Tha’ wee zippo’s great fer a Molotov. Always tricket[5] to give me a spark.”

They rounded the corner to the Engineer’s workshop, carrying heavy boxes and bags. Already, there was a sizeable pile of equipment and technology outside bay doors well secured by a chain. The Engineer dropped his load and reached to his belt, unlocking the door.

“Is this all of it, lad?” Demoman set his load down by the door.

Engineer tipped his hardhat at the Demoman. “Yeah, that’ll do it. Thanks, pardner.”

The Scot rolled his shoulders and back, spine popping. “I’ll see ya at the strategy meetin’ then.”

“Wouldn’t miss it fer anything,” Engineer nodded.

He turned and threw open the wooden doors. The counters and cabinets were bare, the floors swept clean and the stools neatly tucked away. Dust motes hung softly in the air, illuminated by the narrow, high windows on the back wall. A few crates were stacked in a corner, along with some of his buildings.

As much as he hated leaving some of his babies behind when he moved on to other bases, it did give him a head start in getting ready for a battle when he returned. By now, he left a little tech behind at each base. A teleporter, maybe a turret or two, a dispenser… enough to leave something for him to start with when he returned. This meant that when he wasn’t on base, his workshop was locked up tight.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t updated the technology on this base for a while. With tomorrow’s battle approaching, there was no time like the present.

He wheeled all of the crates inside with a dolly, setting them against the wall by the workbenches. Then he reached into his belt for a keychain, cycled through them until he found the correct one, and unlocked the first of the crates in the corner.

Behind lid number one was a turret, left at Stage One for ease of storage. Soon enough, the little guy would be getting some exercise. He hadn’t needed to update turret technology in a while, so all this one should really need is a diagnostics test. He patted it affectionately, and moved on to the next box. The Engineer began unpacking the rest of the boxes, running a scrutinizing eye over little scratches in paint or scorch marks on the metal. Battle scars and war wounds, lost whenever he scrapped a machine or upgraded it.

Most battle wounds that he and his co-workers gained as part of the job vanished under the beam of a Medigun, gone like the scratches on his builds, but the Medigun could never heal afflictions within the mind. They all carried invisible scars, revealing themselves in mannerisms and habits. Like the way that the Medic flinched at the sound of static, a sure sign of a back-stabbing Spy uncloaking on the battlefield in order to strike. Or the way that sometimes, you could never tell what crazy thing Soldier was going to do next. He wondered whether the Scout just talked to inflate his own ego, or if the chatter was to distract himself. Whenever Pyro started playing with a lighter, Spy was noticeably on edge. And especially on the days they lost, the bottle was never far from Demoman’s side.

In the Engineer’s case, nowadays, the sight of a man in a suit put his teeth on edge. War changes a man. They all had their issues that, metaphorically speaking, a coat of paint couldn’t fix.

He reached down into the crate and pulled out the teleporter. With a grunt, he hauled it onto his shoulder and carried it to a work table. With a battle approaching the paint could wait; what really needed his attention was upgrading the software inside.

The software was important. You couldn’t have just any old dummy stumbling across a teleporter and stepping on it without even knowing what it was, ending up in places they shouldn’t be. That kind of thing led to no end of trouble, and probably would ruin Miss Pauling’s day. So the men all had codes, little signals embedded into their gear and weapons so that no matter what they were carrying or wearing they’d still be able to use the teleporters.

Those little signals were what he needed to update now, so that the new equipment they’d gotten since he was last here would register to the teleporters. With everything they used on the battlefield it would probably work fine anyways, but then he’d rather not get hell from the others on the off chance that someone using totally new gear stepped onto the platform and went nowhere.

If he scrapped the build or built it from new, it already had the updated signals embedded in the software. Unfortunately this also erased the user logs, which contained a history of who used the machine, when, and how many times, so he preferred to manually update when possible.

First, the outer plating had to come off.

He crossed the room over to the stack of boxes and crates he brought with him, and opened one of them. Then, the Engineer pulled out a microwaved sized boxy object and placed it next to the teleporter on the bench. It was a dull gray, with an inset in which a small screen and a blocky keyboard sat. He plugged it in, and watched the text flash across the screen as it booted up. As it sat, this was the latest in portable computer technology.

After a few minutes of watching the startup sequence, he started removing the teleporter’s protective plating until a plug outlet was visible. By then, the computer was ready to work. He pulled the corresponding cord out from the back of the computer and plugged it into the jack.

 

_\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_TELEMAX INTERFACE SOFTWARE_

 

_[SCOUT]                     [USER LOG]   [EDIT]_

_[SOLDIER]                  [USER LOG]   [EDIT]_

_[PYRO]                      [USER LOG]   [EDIT]_

_[DEMOMAN]              [USER LOG]   [EDIT]_

 

_[↓]        [BACK]            [QUIT]_

_\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------_

The Engineer reached into his toolbox and pulled out a piece of paper, containing codes for new pieces of equipment and weapons that they’d received since the last time they were at Dustbowl. He unfolded the list and placed it next to the computer.

The Scout was up first. Weapons tended to be issued at random, and often the items themselves seemed random at times. Everyone on base always knew when Scout got a new weapon- loudly and as soon as possible. The Engineer wasn’t one to complain about getting an extra edge on the enemy, but he didn’t think that fighting with a cleaver was what the saying meant. He selected Scout’s entry, and started editing it.

_\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_TELEMAX INTERFACE SOFTWARE_

 

_[SCOUT]_

_[EDIT]_

            _[WEAPONS]_

_[COSMETICS]_

_[TOOLS]_

 

_[BACK]_

_\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------_

A faint whistle shrieked outside, signaling the departure of the train. It would only be a matter of time before someone started blowing stuff up. He hoped that it was Soldier; he had a bet going with Medic on that score.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

_TELEMAX INTERFACE SOFTWARE_

 

_[SCOUT]_

_[WEAPONS]               [EDIT]              [NEW ENTRY]_

_[{SCRIPT:tf_weapon_prep_brawler_blaster} {ID:76561197970342156|916900541}]_

_[{SCRIPT:tf_weapon_atomizer} {ID:76561197996543132|1221325685}]_

_[{SCRIPT:tf_weapon_winger} {ID:76561197996543132|1221234562}]_

_[{SCRIPT:tf_weapon_soda_popper} {ID:76561197996543132|1221399676}]_

 

_[↓] [↑]   [BACK]            [QUIT]_

_\-------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Consulting the list, he quickly updated the information in the teleporter. The Engineer smirked at the name, the Flying Guillotine, and entered it in. He worked his way through the classes, scrolling down the screen.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

_TELEMAX INTERFACE SOFTWARE_

 

_[MEDIC]                     [USER LOG] [EDIT]_

_[SNIPER]                    [USER LOG] [EDIT]_

_[SPY]                        [USER LOG] [EDIT]_

_[USERNAME]            [USER LOG]_

 

_[↑]        [BACK]            [QUIT]_

_\-------------------------------------------------------------------------_

He paused at the bottom of the main screen, confused. Username? When he programmed the teleporter ID system that was the kind of name the classes had before he filled them out. Not only that, this one couldn’t be edited.

Enemy spies could use his builds as they pleased, based on whatever disguise they were wearing. Something in those little cloakers disguised as cigarette cases not only produced a disguise outwardly good enough to fool enemies, it also generated the right signals to use the enemy technology. It even fooled Mediguns. But if you looked at the class user log, the item script in the log would be for a Spy’s disguise kit, rather than an item that the actual person would use.

Instead of a script that read something like:

            _[{SCRIPT:tf_weapon_cleaver} {ID:76561197996543132|1221368006}]_

You would end up with:

            _[{SCRIPT:tf_weapon_pda_spy} {ID:11300042052020112|12212007521}]_

Somewhere out there, the Engineer was sure that the sides kept track of whose Spy did what. Regardless of who Spies impersonated, it would show up under that class. Medic, Heavy, the enemy Spy, it didn’t matter. There should be no extra class.

He was getting a bad feeling about this. And, a spike of anger. Who thought they had the right to mess with his machines?

With a sour taste in his mouth, the Engineer selected the class.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

_TELEMAX INTERFACE SOFTWARE_

 

_[USERNAME]_

_[USER LOG]_

_[{TIMESTAMP:09.27.1970_22.42.56} {ID:07180125|13011414}]_

_[{TIMESTAMP:09.28.1970_01.15.13} {ID:07180125|13011414}]_

 

_[BACK]            [QUIT]_

_\-------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Two entries, both from the last time they were at this base. Both within a few hours of each other, late at night. At that time, everyone was sleeping, drunk, or holed up in their respective areas. That had been the night of their first victory since arrival, so drinking was a certainty.

A thought struck him as he considered the timestamp.

The whole mess with the courier began not long after they left Dustbowl and arrived at the Badlands base.

This class, or whatever the heck it was, couldn’t even be edited. It hacked right into his teleporter’s records nice as you please, entered the base, and left like a tomcat in the night a few hours later. The ID’s were like nothing he’d ever seen. Somehow, the teleporter had accepted the code and let something through.

The Engineer felt a coil of anger settle in his stomach. He liked to consider himself an easy going guy, but any idiot who touched his babies had it coming to them.

He checked the clock, and found that the strategy meeting was approaching. With any luck, he’d have time to give Miss Pauling a call before he had to attend. This stood a high chance of being related to everything else that went on months ago.

The more of that whole quandary they understood, the better of a chance the Engineer stood of getting his hands on the slimy snake that messed with his machines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Scottish: run away  
> [2] Scottish: cowards  
> [3] Scottish: to play hide and seek  
> [4] Molotov cocktail: a glass bottle with flammable liquid inside (often alcohol) and a piece of cloth sticking out of the neck. Wielders set the rag on fire before throwing the firebomb. (DO NOT TRY AT HOME.)  
> [5] Scottish: happy
> 
> Theme song for this chapter is Come Out and Play, by The Offspring.
> 
> Back in the 1800s, Redmond and Blutarch Mann convinced their father, Zephaniah Mann, to purchase useless land in the Badlands, convinced that the gravel would become profitable. On the way there he contracts many humorously named diseases and ends up writing his will on his own sloughed off arm skin in 1850 before dying. In addition to cursing the two brothers to share the land, he gives his weapons company to his friend Barnabas Hale, and his ‘miracle gravel’ (Australium) to his maid servant Elizabeth, who bears an eerie resemblance to the current Administrator, Helen. He also warns her that a year before Zephaniah Mann wrote his will and died, Grey resurfaced and tried to blackmail for the Australium. This is the last we hear of him. You can read Mann’s will here: (www.teamfortress.com/mannwill/)
> 
> The Scottish brogue translations in this story were taken from (www.firstfoot.com/dictionary). There are like 14 different ways to describe being drunk in there, and I suspect that it’s not a complete list. 
> 
> The scripts used in the Telemax software were actually taken from their names in the code. Scout’s items are the Baby Face Brawler, Atomizer, Winger, and Soda Popper. The item that the Engineer is adding is from the August 2nd game patch, the one just before the Mann vs Machine update. Telemax is a fake company found in the game, corresponding to the teleporters. I thought it would be a nice touch.
> 
> A note on the insanely long string of numbers for the ID's: check the tf2 wiki pages for those items, look at the page code (View code source) and look at the line for the contributor. The link code is what I chose for the item IDs. There was no contributor for Spy’s Disguiser (because it's one of the earliest items in the game), so I just went through the page code and picked out numbers.
> 
> Timeline wise, I'm going with September 1970 for Arc One, February 1971 for Arc Two, and July 1971 for Arc Three. Mann vs Machine update came out 08/15/12, so I'm thinking I'll choose August 1971 for that.
> 
> I have a working theory that the teleporters work using ID codes embedded in weaponry and uniforms. The teleporter reads the code of the first item it senses (whether that be a weapon or an item or whatnot), recognizes it as something owned by a teammate, and lets them through. This means that only the team can get through. Spy disguiser kits can trick the machines however, and the item that shows up on the log is the disguiser, rather than any item the person they are disguised as might be carrying. 
> 
> Take the ID string numbers from Username and match them up against the alphabet, with “A” being 01 and so on. Sometimes things can be hiding in plain sight. It matches up to a particular in-game easter egg, so thanks go to TaylorBeth for showing me that.


	14. The Downside of Sci-Fi Ghetto

_TFI Headquarters_

_Location Unknown_

 

Miss Pauling stood outside the door to the Administrator’s office and took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be a fun conversation. And in with everything else that had happened so far… she definitely wasn’t going to be happy.

Steeling herself, she knocked on the door. _Rap. Rap. Ra-Rap-Rap._

“Enter, Miss Pauling.”

Miss Pauling adjusted her spectacles and opened the door. The Administrator was still sitting in her chair, watching the same cameras as before. She hadn’t even turned her head to Miss Pauling.

“Um. So remember when I thought-”

“Out with it, Miss Pauling. Don’t stall.” The Administrator snapped.

“Um, uh, right.” Miss Pauling blanched. She was in one of her moods. Great. “RED Engineer called, and I think I know how the cameras were hacked. By what… I’m not sure.”

Now the Administrator turned to her, her expression haunted in the glare of the computer screens. “Well you should be. Otherwise you’re wasting my time.” She fell silent and Miss Pauling waited, frozen to the spot. After a long pause, she sighed and waved a hand languidly. “Well? What are you waiting for? Let’s have it.”

Miss Pauling approached the chair and pulled a set of printouts from the teleporter off of her clipboard. “These are from one of the Engineer’s teleporters. He was updating one he left at Dustbowl, and there’s an unknown user in the log.” She flipped the page. “And here’s the timestamp of when it happened. This was about ten months ago, just before the briefcase was stolen. That’s not even a real ID code, but the teleporter let it through anyways.”

“And what exactly, did it let through?” Her voice was flat and chilly.

Miss Pauling opened her clipboard and pulled out a tape. “I pulled some footage from the cameras at the timestamps, and, well, you’ll have to see it for yourself.” She handed it to the Administrator, who inserted the tape into the main console. One of the screens flickered and spazzed for a moment, and then began playing the recording.

The first scene was from Camera 14, positioned in the Engineer’s workshop. Just out of range of view, there was a flash of light from the teleporter. Then… something passed in front of the camera, cloaked. The camera picked up the faintest of shimmers, almost like a cloaked Spy. The figure exited the room.

The screen flickered and settled onto feed from Camera 12, which recorded footage from the hallway next to the kitchen. A faint, humanoid sized disturbance made its way across the screen, almost like a heat shimmer, or a refraction of light. A shadow appeared in the doorway and the specter froze. No one came into the hall, and after a minute it continued onwards.

“Miss Pauling, did you come here and disturb me to show me footage of an enemy Spy infiltrating RED base?” She asked. “All glitches in an outdated teleporter aside, I haven’t seen anything amiss so far.”

Her grip tightened on her clipboard. “Just a little longer. It will make sense on the next camera.”

To her relief, the screen took that moment to shift to Camera 3, which sat in the Resupply. It was a well-lit area, and Miss Pauling paused the film at the moment the figure passed under a bright ceiling light, close to the camera.

Underneath the glare of the light, frozen in the camera’s eye, the true silhouette of the figure was clear, and it certainly wasn’t human. It was too blocky, for one thing. Like someone wearing plate armor. It was about the size and build of a Spy, but it certainly didn’t look like one in the frame.

Miss Pauling preferred attending gun shows to technology conventions, and as such, wouldn’t have seen that and thought ‘robot’. As a child she had seen movies which involved cube shaped robots, so she had some idea of what they looked like, but these were about as similar to the figure in the recording as a child’s first playdough sculpture to Michelangelo’s David.

The Administrator narrowed her eyes and leaned forward in the chair. “What… is that?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “It leaves the area, presumably to hack into the cameras, and leaves through the teleporter a few hours later. I mean, it doesn’t look human, but what else could it be? I don’t have the answers.”

“Then find out!” The Administrator snapped, and thumped a hand on the chair.

Miss Pauling started. She had no idea what to do about it, or even where to start. The intruder arrived at just the right moment; when the men were celebrating a victory and therefore too drunk or tired to notice. Whoever designed the whole event wouldn’t even have to follow the TF Industries train shipments; all they really had to do was follow the noise. The battles weren’t exactly subtle, and the locals always knew when RED and BLU were in town. As to what their intruder was, she didn’t know how to find the answers. But in the mood that the Administrator was in, failure was not an option.

The Administrator hmphed to herself. “Put some of the agents on it. In the meantime, tell the men not to leave teleporters on under _any_ circumstances. Have the Engineers code the teleporters so that _only_ the men’s’ codes will work. I _will_ have order,” she growled.

“Yes, Madame Administrator,” she squeaked.

As she hurried from the room, the Administrator pressed play on the recording, allowing the tape to continue. One shimmering shadow moving among the rest, acting in darkness.

Two could play at that game. She would find the culprit in the penumbra, and only in its death would it be brought to light.

\--------------------------------------------------------

_Dustbowl_

_BLU Base_

 

Rain fell in fat, angry droplets. Yesterday afternoon it had hit with soft _pafs_ on the parched dust and _tiks_ on the concrete. Today, with fine specks of silt plastered in between grains of sand, the landscape had turned into a sucking mire of mud and puddles. Was it damp ground, or was it a one foot deep muddy pit? Until someone, usually Scout, stuck a foot into it, it was nearly impossible to tell. If there wasn’t already a ceasefire, BLU Spy was certain that one would have been called.

Earlier that morning, Soldier had to be rescued when he rocket-jumped and ended up landing shoulder deep.

BLU Spy stood in Resupply next to the open door. The plinks and splatter of raindrops outside on all manner of materials was soothing, compared to the cabin fever of his teammates further inside. With normal, intelligent, _non-imbecilic_ people, it may take months of being shuttered into a small compound to get onto each other’s nerves. In a relatively large base with individual rooms and many nooks and crannies, it had taken merely two hours for Sniper to cross the yard in favor of his cramped, isolated camper van. An hour later, Spy envied him.

He inhaled the moist, fresh air. The rainy season here reminded him a little of home, just with poorly designed and ramshackle buildings. With the frequency of battles they fought, Spy was amazed that the various battlefields hadn’t collapsed long ago from all of the bombs, rockets, bullets, and various flame throwers that they regularly used. They could leave a battlefield totally in flames, and the next time they arrived it would look exactly the same, down to the last burn mark and rip in a mostly hidden poster.

Spy suspected that the Administrator had an impressively good remodeler. He only wished that they would do something about the architecture.

Off in the distance, against the backdrop of falling rain he could hear a splashing sound slowly approaching, punctuated by a soft litany of curses. He rolled his eyes and leaned against the door just as Sniper squelched around the corner. He was splattered with mud from the chest down, and soaked the rest of the way.

“Did you miss us?” he asked dryly.

Sniper padded through the doorway to stand next to Spy, much to his distaste as the man dripped mud. “Nah. Couldn’t sleep with the rain drumming by my head.” He took off his hat and shook it a little, scattering water everywhere. Spy glared at him. His suit was quite expensive and difficult to keep clean, and Sniper certainly knew that.

“It’s like the monsoon season back home,” he continued despite Spy’s look that suggested he drip _somewhere else_. Almost in response, the man took off a boot and tipped it out back over the threshold, where rain dripped and flowed.

“Of course this weather would have to remind you of ze most infernal place on earth,” Spy retorted scathingly. The bushman wasn’t helping his already sour temper. Of all the times he could have picked to attempt being sociable, he picked a time when he knew Spy obviously wanted to be alone. Typical.

“It’s not that bad. Some places are pretty nice.” Spy had hoped that being nasty would have chased off the man, but it was having the opposite effect. The bushman could be quite stubborn. It was most vexing. Of all the things he could have stopped to talk about, it had to be something so trite. Spy sneaked a glance over at Sniper. There was a faint smirk curling around the corner of his lips. As he expected, filthy bushman _knew_ just how annoying he was being, and was enjoying it.

Well, if he insisted on playing that game right now, Spy would oblige. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

“One day of ze year, perhaps.” He blew the smoke towards his co-worker, and felt a faint prickle of satisfaction when the other man wrinkled his nose.

“The coast is good for a barbie[1] any day of the week. Nice weather out there.” Sniper waved his hat in the smoke a little, and Spy could see a glimmer of amusement in the man’s eyes when it flicked water in his direction.

From this conversation, Spy knew that an outside observer might come to the conclusion that he and Sniper disliked each other. This couldn’t be farther from the truth; they were on the same side after all. There were, regrettably, times when they had to rely on each other, so even if they hated the opposite number on the RED team Spy couldn’t simply hate all Snipers, and Sniper couldn’t throw jars of piss at anyone wearing a suit. That sort of thing led to soaked people who had a lot of money and no sense of humor.

Both were quite lonely classes, on the whole. Snipers found a quiet place to sit and weaponize math into putting a bullet into someone’s brain, and Spies snuck around in the shadows looking for a handy enemy to stab in the back. Unlike a Heavy there was no Medic to fight with, or a Pyro to help an Engineer. They were on their own. In most cases, a teammate nearby could result in them getting killed.

Despite this, Spy would fight to help the man, or at least provide a distraction to let his teammate get out of trouble. Blood was so hard to get out of a suit. And he knew that Sniper would as well, or at least throw a Med-pack in his direction; you couldn’t be too careful with spies. Someone who looked like your injured teammate could turn out to be the enemy waiting for you to drop your weapons and get nice and close, perfect for a stabbing.

Even if they did care about each other, that wasn’t going to get in the way of annoying the hell out of each other.

Spy cast a sidelong look at the other man. “Did you come back just to irritate me? Or do you really enjoy inane chitchat? Wait... don’t tell me... you actually desired companionship?.” He raised his eyebrows mischievously. “That certainly deals a blow to your ‘lone wolf’ persona. I won’t tell the others. Trust me, I’m a Spy.”

Sniper snickered. “Trust a Spy? Now that’s a death wish right there.” He pulled off the other boot and emptied it outside.

Fine, he’d crack. “Must you do that?” He hissed, gesturing at the boot with his cigarette. It was always a game to see who could ignore the other the longest. He would just have to win next time.

Sniper gave it one more tap for emphasis and put it back on, sock audibly squishing. “The mud out there’s pretty bad in places. This stuff’d suck up one of your fancy clogs in seconds. I figure this beats tracking it all over the base.”

“Like everyone else is doing?” Spy replied sourly.

“ _I’m_ not cleanin’ it. Nah. As soon as I finish drippin’ I’ll go an’ hose off and leave ya to your sulking.”

“I’m not-” Spy was cut off by the intercom crackling to life.

“Attention. All teleporters are to remain off outside of battle unless authorized until further notice. Failure to comply will result in termination.”

The speakers hissed and died, and Sniper turned to look at Spy. “That doesn’t sound good. What’s all that about?”

“I couldn’t say,” Spy raised an eyebrow. “Unless our more simple-minded coworkers have done something in ze last ten minutes, I don’t believe it is a result of our actions. I’m sure we would have heard the commotion by now.”

Sniper gave a sideways look. “What do ya think the odds are that Miss Pauling is over at RED right now?”

This was not a new topic. Ever since the Scout had pointed it out, both of them paid close attention to the phenomenon. Or at least they had, long ago. Under the onslaught of constant battles, most concerns other than the next conflict had fallen away. Until now, Spy had mostly forgotten about it. “Hm. It’s possible, given how often she shows up during ceasefires now.”

They watched the rain for a few seconds. “Well? Come on, mate, it’s not like you to let a mystery lie like this.”

Spy coughed and stared outside, off in the direction of the enemy base. “I do when it has a certainty of getting me killed. But it would be a shame to not inquire at least a little.”

Sniper gestured at the mud. “You? Go out there? Hah, I gotta see this,” he said, incredulous.

“When the ground can be walked on, of course.” Spy glared at him. “Idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

Sniper chuckled in response and shook his hair, showering the spook. With a final snicker, he headed inside.

“Barbarian” Spy hissed under his breath. He would do some investigating (only amateurs would call it snooping), and then, with the information in hand, see how humble Sniper would be to only learn a _fraction_ of what he had unearthed. A fitting revenge.

All in due time, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Australian slang for a barbecue
> 
> Songs of the chapter are Soldiers by Otherwise, and Heart Shaped Box by Nirvana.
> 
> “Sci-Fi Ghetto” is a stigma against science fiction, which causes some people to not consider it proper literature. It’s a somewhat contradictory that it’s both too complex for mainstream audiences with 'simple' tastes and yet simultaneously not literary and sophisticated enough for critics and academics (according to the definition on TvTropes). If either Miss Pauling or the Administrator had been familiar with science fiction, perhaps they would have known a robot when they saw one. Or at least, ones more technologically advanced than the ones available during that time period.
> 
> Upon reading this chapter, my beta remarked that the Administrator reminded her of Umbridge from Harry Potter. She is quite similar, to what Umbridge might have been if she was in control of the world.
> 
> I actually looked up New Mexico’s climate to match the weather to the time of the year. You’re welcome.
> 
> For those unfamiliar with “rocketjumping”, it is when Soldier points a rocket between his feet and jumps up as he pulls the trigger, with the resulting explosion launching him into the air, relatively unharmed. Of course, we’re talking video game physics here. In real life, he’d probably blast his legs going up, and shatter what’s left on the way down. As a side note, in the TF2 universe, the timeline says that Abraham Lincoln invented stairs in 1857, replacing rocket jumping as a means of getting beyond the first floor. There are some parts of our histories that I can’t reconcile.
> 
> While we’re on the subject of TF2 history, Mann. Co invented a ‘ro-bot’ in 1900, assuring the public that it would ‘only be used for violence’. I’m assuming that the ‘ro-bot’ looks vastly different from a Spy-bot, which they wouldn’t have become familiar with yet. Also, in 1921 Franklin Roosevelt apparently loses both legs rocket jumping, and as a result he perfects the modern staircase.
> 
> I like to think that the Sniper and Spy of RED and BLU are friends, but the kind that are jerks to each other until the chips are really down. The absolutely loathe and oppose the opposite counterpart of the other team, but on the same team they’re kind of asshole friends. They have an interesting banter dynamic. It’s fun to write. 
> 
> As a side note, I have recently become acquainted with riding a motorcycle. It’s pretty sweet. If you ever go back to chapter five, I recommend Ghost Rider by Rush.


	15. Spy vs Spy

A few days later, Spy crossed into enemy territory. Fighting during ceasefires was forbidden, but Spy never saw that as a reason not to explore. Rules were meant to be bent, weren’t they? And if they could be bent in your favor, more the better. 

So, keep to the shadows. Leave no trace, steal nothing that would be missed, and keep out of the other Spy’s way. It was the height of bad form for two cloaked Spies to bump into each other, and even more so during a ceasefire. His opponent might be a shaved monkey in a cheap suit, but certain niceties had to be observed.

In some circumstances however, there were benefits to seeking out your opposite number.

On his own, the best Spy could do was wander around and hope someone said something. While this technique had its merits, it did tend result in a lot of wasted time, time he did not exactly have. Another time honored tactic was to find an enemy and have a chat via his butterfly knife, straight and to the point, literally. But, this topic of ceasefires and teleporters, seemed to be a delicate one, especially with Miss Pauling being so involved in the strange business. Attracting her attention could have very definite consequences.

Given the nature of the information he sought, a consultation would be his best bet. 

Which is why he was at RED base now, tucked into a nook outside, just out of range of the cameras he knew to be nearby. As an added precaution, he did his best to remain out of sight when his cloak was recharging, and thus unusable.

Despite the somewhat unpredictable and varied movements of mercenaries on a base, where anything could change the status quo, there were patterns. Favored activities, at certain locations, at certain times, after certain daily outcomes. A good Spy paid attention to such things; it was important for when you were trying to avoid or find certain people.

This particular spot was one of the places RED Spy preferred to have a smoke in decent weather. With a casual check of the time, he settled in to wait.

Barely ten minutes had passed when he saw the RED Spy round the corner. His hands itched for his balisong, quiet and efficient at killing, but that was not the purpose of this meeting no matter how much he may hate the man. He uncloaked when the man was fifteen feet away as a courtesy, to allow him time to make a decision. 

And if this amateur chose to fight first, then BLU Spy could use that to convince his teammates to harass him in the next battle. All may be fair in love and war, but if you couldn’t follow the Code, you might as well be an idiot in a cheap suit.

RED Spy halted in his tracks, an expression of sour distrust creeping across what little of his face could be seen through his mask. BLU Spy remained still as the other man’s hand crept into his jacket, where undoubtedly a gun lay, yet he did not withdraw the weapon.

“Hm. Well, well, well, look at what the cat threw up,” The RED Spy remarked. “Surely you realize that by being found in enemy territory, the rules of ceasefire no longer apply to you?

A derisive smile crept onto BLU Spy’s face. “Of course. And yet, here I am.”

They watched each other like cats, metaphorical tails twitching. BLU Spy could see the gears turning in RED Spy’s head. The plus side of conversing with an enemy Spy is that you rarely had to spell things out.

The RED gave a short sigh, pulled his hand out of his suit jacket. Because he wasn’t a complete idiot, he maintained his distance. “What is it you want?”

BLU Spy reached slowly into his jacket and pulled out his cigarette pack. He pulled one out and stuck it in between his teeth, to show that they weren’t poisoned, and then proffered the pack to the other man. You could hate someone’s guts, but there were certain things in this business you just had to do.

RED Spy responded by pulling his own cigarette case and selecting a cigarette from within. Of course he would, the bastard.

BLU Spy shrugged and put the case back in his suit pocket, lighting his own. “I came to propose a trade. I want information, and in this circumstance it appears that simply searching through your base would be a waste of my time. I believe that you have what I want; I’m willing to negotiate.”

The other man narrowed his eyes and gave BLU Spy a long, cool look. Information exchange was always a risky business; you could not be entirely sure that the information you traded for was worth the value of what you divulged on your end.

RED Spy drew deeply on his cigarette and blew it out in a long stream. “That would depend on what it is you seek. The price could be quite steep.”

“Naturally.” The BLU waved a hand in response. “You may consider it a matter of curiosity, if it helps. Allow me a moment to expound upon a theory, so that even someone like you will understand what it is that I’m asking.”

The corner of RED Spy’s mouth twitched at the stealth insult. BLU Spy couldn’t help it; he’d hated his rival for a long time. While it was fun to bait the RED, sooner or later someone would come around. For example, in twenty or so minutes the Engineer was likely to come out to enjoy a beer on the steps, and he would rather not be there when it happened.

“It’s not often that I have to bring myself down to a kindergarten level of thinking. Proceed.” The other man quipped in return.

He nodded in acknowledgement. Touché. “We have experienced an unusual amount of ceasefires in the past months, all originating from activity on your team... or lack thereof. In all cases, Miss Pauling, whom I am sure you are familiar with, was seen visiting your base. As a result of the latest ceasefire, teleporter usage has been curtailed. I am looking for details regarding these phenomena.”

For anyone else, his counterpart’s expression might have been described as unreadable. To him, it was mildly speculative. “You would have to wager much for that, depending on the level of detail.”

Therein lay the issue. How could you exchange information that wouldn’t compromise your team in some way? Betrayal wasn’t a light decision for a Spy; anyone who had survived in this field as long as them had certainly been burned at least once. 

The times that involved Pyros did not bear mentioning. He internally shuddered at the thought.

Putting all thoughts of flames and smoke _out_ of his mind, BLU Spy replied, “I know where and when we will be stationed for the next two months.”

RED Spy raised his eyebrows skeptically, but did not comment. Asking where or how a Spy obtained the Intel you were trading for would be a grave insult. You just had to hope that their source was reliable, and, really, so did they.

“For that, you would receive the barest minimum on the initial ceasefires. You are going to have to do better than that if you want to know about the teleporters,” The RED said.

As much as he hated his counterpart, BLU Spy had to admit that he missed this, the negotiation of knowledge so common among agents of the Cold War. He loved the thrill of the bargain. The fact that RED Spy was haggling was promising.

“In addition, I can provide on observation on one of many weaknesses in your team,” he added.

That was worth a lot, to a Spy. Watching and waiting for the right moment to strike was a part of any successful- or to put it another way, still living- Spy. Giving up a personal advantage like that was serious business.

He could tell that RED Spy had quickly reached that conclusion as well, his skepticism replaced with thoughtfulness. There was always the risk that this would be a minor deficiency, but the mere suggestion of what BLU Spy was bargaining was usually a good sign that it was sincere.

RED Spy nodded. “Mmm. I accept these terms.”

BLU Spy allowed himself a moment of internal congratulation. But this was only half of the battle. The devil would be in the details; specifically, how many of them he could get.

He took this as his cue to begin. It would have to be something on the Engineer; you would have to pry his hard won knowledge on the Sniper out of his cold, dead, hands. They would be, if he sacrificed even a small edge on that filthy, _piss-jar throwing_ bushman.

“Whenever your Engineer has completed a Build in Control Point battles, he tends to run straight towards the battlefield. It’s laughable, and almost makes my job too easy.”

The RED shrugged. “That would be the only way you could ever do it, I suppose.” He ignored a flash glare BLU Spy sent at him. “But… that is valid. I will send it along.”

The man nodded to himself, and took a drag on his cigarette. “I gather that you have little time here, so I will give you an overview. Should you want more, you will have to bargain for it.”

BLU Spy wanted to protest. But… _cuius testiculos habes._ The Neanderthal had a point. He nodded in return. “Indeed. I’m sure there is no ulterior motive there,” he said dryly.

“Naturally.” RED Spy leaned against the wall and exhaled smoke. “For some time, we have been experiencing… difficulties.”

“Of what kind?” he asked.

If emotions could be personified, then RED Spy would be the exact lack thereof. “Someone has been stealing information. I’m sure you are aware that your employer has a file on you?”

Whether it was _complete_ or not was another story. “Of course.”

“It started with that. Then, it became footage of our battles,” The RED Spy seemed perturbed. 

“Despite my best interests, I can assure you it was not my team,” BLU Spy replied. It never hurt to gain a little notoriety where you could, but this… was just too strange. 

RED Spy scoffed. “Obviously not. This was done by a professional. Whoever it is seems to be constantly one step ahead of our Administrator.”

Despite the barb, this piqued his interest. “Our Administrator hasn’t mentioned anything to us, beyond the aforementioned announcement regarding our teleporters.”

“Hm. Well, that was how our footage was stolen.” The man hesitated. “Something hacked into our teleporter to get on base.”

BLU Spy was quick to jump on the opening. “Something?”

RED Spy glanced away to look at the horizon, looking thoughtful. “We caught it on the cameras. It didn’t look human.”

A light flickered across the RED base, and BLU Spy was suddenly more aware of how little time he had. This was starting to sound more and more disturbing. Someone- or if the Spy was to be believed (which was risky), _something-_ had been casually taking information from RED as they pleased. Given the difficulty with which they obtained intelligence on the enemy- they waged entire battles over one briefcase for heaven’s sake- this was troubling, to say the least. He was starting to see why so many ceasefires had been negotiated. Or... had they been? 

BLU Spy had, on a few occasions when he took a walk into RED territory, heard the men mention of an Administrator in charge as well. Either the voice on the intercom announced for both teams and was hired as the spokesperson for each team… or something far more sinister was going on.

“I presume that Miss Pauling has been interacting with you in regards to these developments?” BLU Spy pressed onwards.

The look the man gave him was reproachful. “I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

You could say a lot with a look, and the one that they shared said this: we both know that there is more than meets the eye where Miss Pauling is concerned.

Miss Pauling was an enigma. She seemed to work for the Administrator, performing the role of keeping BLU out of jail and negotiating with RED, but Spy’s instincts told him that she kept far more secrets than just the affairs of BLU. Perhaps it was in the way she talked, as if she had to remind herself which side she was talking to. 

Regardless, he suspected that she dealt with RED and BLU in a manner far beyond simple negotiation. By unspoken agreement, the spies stayed away from discussing it too much; they sensed that there was something far bigger at stake behind the scenes. Talking about that kind of thing, with all of the implications that went with it, could get them killed for their troubles. 

Spy was well paid for his services, and for that he felt disinclined to pry into the business of his employer. For all extents and purposes, Miss Pauling was a negotiator between the two sides.

“I see. The stolen footage most likely involved my team as well. I’m sure that BLU command has sent her to assist you in your difficulties so that our battles can resume.” BLU Spy said carefully. His counterpart nodded solemnly, affirming his suspicions.

There was a noise inside, and his head jerked to the door. “It seems our little meeting is at an end.” He stubbed out his cigarette and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a piece of paper which contained the information he had bartered with. “I’m sure that you will find the result of our discussion useful. I certainly have.” He placed the piece of paper down on a barrel.

With that, he cloaked and left. He could hear the RED Engineer talking to the Spy, and felt a wave of relief. That was close. But all things considered, even the risk of painful, sentry-induced death, it was an evening well spent. The knowledge he gained was worth that risk.

Sniper would want to know, of course. He would pretend he didn’t, and that made it all the more fun to withhold it. 

Take that, Sniper!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I love the Spies. I’ve written them both separately, but it was fun to write them together. They absolutely loathe each other. But there is honor among spies, so they have to at least pretend to be polite. They regard the other as ‘lesser’. Egotistical? Perhaps. 
> 
> In regards to music, I found a few James Bond inspired songs that fit the spy persona very well. Snowblind, and The Song That Never Ends, by Aviators.
> 
> Spy invisibility watches only work for a certain amount of time (which varies depending on the type) before they need to be recharged. During this time, the Spy is painfully visible. It tends to ensure that the Spy creeps around in bursts, hiding somewhere until the watch is able to be used again.
> 
> RED, BLU, what’s the difference? In the game and comics, they look the same, act the same, and speak the same. They are indistinguishable from each other beyond their uniform colors. Perfect copies. I frequently find myself characterizing them as if they were the same person. Are they clones? Are they not? Valve seems to use them interchangeably, dealing with the problem by ignoring it. 
> 
> What measure is a person? We are the sums of our experiences, our reactions thereof, and our memories. I could have been a completely different person, if just a few details were changed. They may have started off the same, but they are not the same anymore. As for myself, I regards them as if they have had similar experiences and are eerily similar, but are not exactly the same.
> 
> An amazing solution to this problem can be seen in the fic You Need To Get A Head, by SanctusCecidit (archive and fanfiction). It explores this idea in depth, and is a great read. I highly recommend it. 
> 
> The line about being an idiot in a cheap suit is a play on Terry Pratchett’s The Last Hero. _“Without the Code, you weren’t a hero. You were just a thug in a loincloth”… “Forget the Code, dismiss the Code… and the Code would take you.”_ (143).
> 
> The un-poisoned cigarette was a shout out to Hobbithearted’s Game Mechanics: Autobalance. Without spoiling the story, those feature in a meeting between the Spies. This gesture also shows that Spy is here with sincere intent. 
> 
> Snipers spend a lot of time sitting still out of a window, looking through a scope. Spies spend a lot of time sneaking around looking for someone to stab in the back. There’s a reason why spies and snipers are rivals. In any case, the Snipers spend a lot of time in one spot. They drink coffee, and pee in jars. At one point a Sniper figured out that if he threw a jar (this is what “Jarate” is, by the way) where he thought the enemy Spy was, he could short out the Spy’s cloak, with the added benefit of horrifying the Spy. To say that they hate each other’s guts would be putting it mildly. 
> 
> _Cuius testiculos habes_ is a shout out to Small Gods, by Pratchett. It’s bowdlerized Latin, meaning 'when they have you by the balls'.
> 
> My dear readers… are you ready to run? Because things are about to go 0-60.


	16. Simoom

Another day, another body. Miss Pauling dropped the bag of Corpse-Grade Quicklime next to the shallow pit. Shoulders burning, she huffed and arched her back, putting her hands on her hips.

At times like these, she remembered when she would have been horrified at the things she does for her job. That was back before she learned the fastest way to remove fingerprints from hands, and teeth from heads. Figuring out the minimum depth possible to bury someone had taken many, many bodies. By now, she could turn a person into an unmarked grave in under two hours. It’s amazing what a person could get used to.

With another sigh, she cut a hole in the bag, stuck the knife in the crusty ground, and started pouring the lime in.

She didn’t know the man beyond his name and description in her set of orders. Maybe he had a family, or a cat that would wonder where its companion had gone. Or, perhaps this weekend he had been planning on fixing the leaky exhaust on his car. The possibilities were endless. And now, they never would be.

She didn’t know why he needed to be killed. The Administrator decided that he had to be, and so she did it. No questions asked. She had gotten good at not asking questions. If she had to hazard a guess, it was probably asking questions that led to this cadaver’s fate.

Questions could get you killed.

Throughout the multiverse it is commonly known that a barman can dispense sagely advice and wisdom upon the nature of life, but by now, Miss Pauling figured that she could give one a run for their money.

A faint ringing from her bag interrupted her thoughts as she was filling in the hole. The sound filled her with dread; she was hoping that if she finished burying this body quickly, she could probably get home before the sun went down. A false hope, maybe.

On the third ring, she picked it up. “Hello?”

“Where are you, Miss Pauling?”

Oh god, she sounded upset. Maybe to an outsider she would seem calm and toneless, but if you knew her and could hear the little signs…

“I-I’m dealing with the last grave of the day,” she stammered.

“Never mind that. Come back, as soon as possible.”

Miss Pauling nestled the phone in the crook of her shoulder and started shoveling soil. “Did something happen? I can just fill this in and get back.”

“Forget it! I want you now!” Her boss snapped.

Miss Pauling almost dropped the shovel into the loose mound in shock. “Uh, y-yes ma’am! Understood!”

The line went dead, a sure sign the Administrator was pissed. All thoughts of going home early forgotten, she quickly shoved the rest of the dirt mound in with her shovel. She had no idea why the Administrator was so insistent, but it sounded bad.

She threw the shovel in the back, hastily brushed off her dress, and grabbed her backpack. The truck started with a rattle and a cough. Oh yeah, it was due for an oil change. No time for that now.

Unease trickled into her heart as she drove. She didn’t dare speed- by now, all troopers knew her by sight as the woman with large bags of money- but she went as fast as she dared. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if she was late.

Whatever it was, she hoped it was important enough to leave the corpse behind. No one deserved to be dug up and eaten by wild animals. She hoped she could come back to finish the job. Even if she knew nearly nothing about him, he deserved that much.

She hoped that when she died, she did too.

 

\------------------------------------------------

She was not watching the screens when Miss Pauling burst into the room, gasping and out of breath. Her chair was turned around to face the door, her eyes steely, her expression like a sucked dog turd. A crate sat in front of her like a table.

Miss Pauling panted in the doorway, her hair half out of its bun and dust still on her dress. Her boss sat and watched her, waiting for her to compose herself before she spoke.

“I-I’m here! I’m here!” She sucked in one last deep breath and straightened, brushing a little bit of dirt off of her skirt. Apprehensive in the face of her supervisor’s silence, she crept into the room.

Was it something she did? Did she screw up so badly that she was going to be fired? Or, and now the thought was spreading in her mind, was she going to be killed? She worked hard to be useful and good at her job, surely that was enough to ensure her continued employment.

 _But I bet the rest of them thought that way too._ She had buried way too many to think even for a minute that she wouldn’t join them if there was a good enough reason for it. She had heard stories of rough firings from their first job, but this would probably top them all.

The Administrator gestured to the crate. “I’m sure you know what this is.”

 _Alright Miss Pauling, she’s not going to kill you yet_ , she thought to herself. At least, probably not personally. Calm down and do your job. “A shipment crate?” She ventured.

“Quite. This is an Australium shipment crate. And this,” the woman pulled out a bar of golden metal from the side and dumped it on top of the crate, “is a bar of Australium, is it not?”

Miss Pauling didn’t know what to say. Was she called all this way to examine Australium? It certainly _looked_ like it, but given the urgency with which she was called it, she felt that there was something more going on than that.

Australium, the most precious metal in the world. It transformed the cities of Australia into futuristic paradises of hover cars and skyscrapers. Jealously guarded, and extremely rare. That ingot right there was worth more than her entire life, more than the GDP of most countries. It could do anything, and allow a creative mind to make anything. Most importantly it could be used in a machine to extend someone’s life for over one hundred years. Both of the Mann brothers persisted long past when they should have died, fueling the Gravel wars of RED and BLU, all thanks to Australium.

The Administrator hoarded all that she could, every last ounce. It was one of the few things that Miss Pauling felt confident in saying that she cared about. No one knew where she stockpiled it.

She took a closer look at the ingot. It was shiny and golden, and bore the stamp of a man boxing with a kangaroo on top. “It… appears to be.”

“Enough to fool outsiders, perhaps.” The Administrator picked up a knife from the panels behind her and carved a long sliver off of the ingot. Underneath, the metal was grey and dull. The Administrator held the shaving up to the light. One side, shiny and gold. The other, a seemingly different metal.

“Lead.” She dropped the sliver down onto the crate with disgust. “All of it. Every single last ingot of this shipment is lead, painted gold.”

She hurled the knife at the wall with a wordless shriek, where, in defiance of all conventions, instead of sticking point first it skipped across the floor and clattered against the wall. As it came to a rest, all emotion fled from the Administrator’s face, and she was as cold and composed as a snowdrift.

Miss Pauling froze in terror. She had never seen her boss so wrathful, so full of rage, even for a second. The woman greeted even the most irritating incident among the men with little more than mild exasperation.

“I want you to go to Australia. Take RED with you. Track down the thief, and _end them,_ ” she said, with a voice as cutting as an icicle.

“Y-Yes, Madam Administrator,” she replied.

“ _Now,_ Miss Pauling. Leave everything else to me.”

“Of course! Yes Madam Administrator!”

It seems that the matter of the unmarked grave, abandoned so quickly, would have to wait. She didn’t want one of her own, the way things were going.

                                                 

\--------------------------------------------------------

 

“Now that everyone is here, I think we can begin.”

She looked out at the assembled team sitting around the table. It had been a busy two days. Phone calls had been made. People had been threatened, bribed, and blackmailed across half of the globe. Connections had been pumped. All she needed to do now was collect the mercs. They regarded her with varying stages of interest; it was uncommon for her to request all of them at once.

She took a deep breath. “Men, we have a problem.”

“Another?” Heavy crossed his arms in a manner comparable to colliding tectonic plates. Muscles rose like mountains.

Miss Pauling took a glance towards Heavy. “Yes. And this one, unfortunately, is a lot bigger than the ones we’ve had in the past.”

“Don’t worry Miss Pauling, I can solve _any_ problem you have.” Scout shot her a pair finger guns, and a grin that probably would have looked slick on someone else.

The Engineer whacked him on the back of the head, and gave him a look of warning when the young man whipped around to cuss him out. Scout bit back the remark and turned it into a brief glare before returning his attention to Miss Pauling.

Medic narrowed his eyes. “Und vhat does zhis problem mean for us?”

“Indeed.” Spy agreed. “What has our thief stolen zis time? Surely something important, if you’ve gathered us.”

Instead of replying to their queries, Miss Pauling turned to the Engineer. “Engineer, how much do you know about Australium?”

Spy whistled low, and the Engineer rubbed the back of his head. “Where do you want me to start?”

Soldier, to whom was a kindness to say that he was more like several miles behind the conversation, rather than a few steps, barked, “And what does this have to do with the price of grenades?”

Miss Pauling sighed. “We’ll get to that, Soldier. Just start with how it’s produced, Engineer.” She realized who she was talking to, and quickly added. “In layman’s terms, please.”

The Engineer shrugged. “Well, ya mine it underground and process the raw metal inta ingots, and then they stamp a picture of a man boxing a kangaroo on top of it. That’s how ya know it’s real.”

“One would hope,” Miss Pauling replied. “Exports out of the country are very rare, but the Administrator has a monopoly on this. In any case, two days ago a shipment arrived, and all of the Australium inside was fake. Lead painted gold.”

Sniper leaned onto the table. “How did it get out then? It’s sold by weight, they should’ve caught that.”

“That is what we’re going to find out.” She reached into her bag and unfurled a map on the table. Various mugs, weapons, and ashtrays were produced by the men to hold it flat. The map showed southeast Australia.

“Sniper, do you know anything about Melbourne?”

There was a hint of a smile on his face. “I bagged a contract there once. It’s an open slather[1] down by the docks, crime wise, and the hover car taxis were miserable bastards[2] when it came to pay up. The tarts[3] were pretty good though.” There was a suggestion that he was waggling his eyebrows behind his shades.

To the background of Spy snickering, she replied, “Thank you for that interesting description, Sniper. We’ll talk more about that later.”

She pointed to Melbourne on the map. “This is where the Australium was shipped out of. And as Sniper so colorfully described it, there is a lot of mafia activity.”

“Ya mean like guys in suits, sayin Fuhgettaboutit? Or big Russian dudes in hats?” Scout asked.

Miss Pauling rolled her eyes. Sometimes, dealing with Scout required an extra special helping of patience. “No, Scout." She would have to explain it all to them sooner or later, and there was no time like the present. “The Melbourne mafia is called The Flynn, and gets its profits from their dock racket. All of the dock workers are in a union, and every morning the union boss picks people for cargo loading and unloading jobs based on the kickbacks they bribe him with, and who’s willing to ignore to mafia activities. People who can’t play along generally end up dead or otherwise unable to get a paycheck. The men are desperate to work, and the mafia uses this to sometimes steal shipments of goods, bribing the unions to ‘lose’,” and here she used air quotes, “the paperwork.”

“Is this what happened to the Australium?” The Engineer asked.

Miss Pauling rubbed her face. “We’ve always been able to keep a handle on them before, but we can’t see any other way it got stolen. It goes from the mines to the docks and on to America, where we intercept it. The only place it changes hands is when it gets loaded onto the cargo ship.”

Soldier slammed a fist on the table. “We should kill them.”

“Muh duh!” Pyro clapped their hands enthusiastically.

Miss Pauling held up a finger. “Not yet, guys. I think that even Melbourne police would notice if an entire section of the city got destroyed. It’d get messy fast. Fortunately, this is where the plan comes in. You guys are coming to their headquarters with me, and we’re going to talk with the boss about it.” She said in a nonchalant way, as if she wasn’t internally terrified of the prospect.

Heavy raised an eyebrow. “How do we get in?”

She pointed to him and smiled. “I’m glad you asked that. The Flynn operates out of a bar called the Frostie Bottle[4].”

Scout smiled in what he probably thought was a suave way. “I’d love to buy you a drink,” he said, earning him another smack from the Engineer.

“No thank you, Scout,” she said without looking at him. “From what I’ve heard they go through bands pretty quickly, so you guys are going to get in as that night’s entertainment.”

“Ye can’t be serious, lass.” The Demoman gaped at her. “Ye want us tae get inta a hedley[5] run by a mafia wi’ only a few instruments ta defend ourselves? That’s a braw[6] way to get ‘em rammed where the sun dunt shine.”

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that, but we’re getting weapons in by the instrument cases. You’ll have to pack small,” she replied

“Great feckin’ idea ye got there, then.” He snorted.

There were murmurs of agreement around the table, and Miss Pauling appealed to a higher authority. “This is what the Administrator wants us to do. You know how to play instruments, so this is what we came up with.”

It was true, theoretically speaking, that they could play together. Most of them could play an instrument of some sort, and a few of them had played together, in bars here and there as they traveled from base to base. As some of them got blacklisted from a majority of bars for destruction to property this happened less. What worried Miss Pauling was the prospect of the men doing the same here.

“This is serious guys,” she said. “A lot is on the line here. I need you to work with me on this. You’re going to be my distraction while I talk to the mob boss. Spy, you’re singing. Sniper, we’ll get you a sax. Demoman, I can arrange for a piano.”

“Oh, good. That’ll be great in a melee.” Demoman muttered under his breath.

Miss Pauling ignored this. “Pyro, you’re on bass, Engineer, you’re on guitar. You’ll have to play on different instruments than your own; there’s always the chance that they could get left behind, and we can modify the cases to hold more ammo. Can you play drums, Heavy? We might be able to sneak in more weapons that way.”

“Da, Matroyshka.” He nodded.

“Soldier, do you think you can play trumpet for the sake of America?”

Soldier saluted. “Their heads will explode from the sheer force of glory,” he growled.

“Vhere does zhis leave Herr Scout und I?” Medic asked.

“You guys have an important role: you’re our backup outside,” she replied.

Scout crumpled. “Aw, c’mon Miss Pauling. I can learn an instrument! Lemme go in!”

“Scout, we need you and Medic to be getaway drivers in case something goes wrong. I can’t send anyone else.”

Scout brightened up. “You can count on me! I’m the fastest man alive!”

If he was, then she was the reigning champion in patience. “We’ll go over more of the details on the way, but I think that about covers it. The Administrator is counting on us to do this.” She looked around at the men. “All you need to do is give me fifteen minutes to talk to the boss. Any questions?”

Spy stubbed out his cigarette. “When do we leave by?”

“You have two hours to get ready and meet me out front. Get to it.”

The room erupted in general hubbub as the men got up to leave. Sniper sidled over to Miss Pauling.

“Are you really going to try talking to Jack Robinson all by yourself?”

Miss Pauling gave him a smile which she hoped looked confident. “I can take care of myself, but thank you for the concern. If you guys can keep most of them distracted, I should be fine.”

His expression was doubtful over his shades. “I just hope you know what you’re gettin’ us into.”

His insistence was touching, but the fact that he even brought it up was more than a little worrisome. “We _have_ to go, Sniper. I’ll do the best I can, and I’m sure that you will too. And if it all falls apart, I trust that you’ll all know what to do.”

The bushman gave her a long, uneasy look, but nodded. Sniper tipped his hat to her, and walked out of the room.

Ok, two hours. Call that an hour and forty five minute nap, and she’d have seven hours of sleep for the day under her belt. Bliss.

She’d need that rest in the mission to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Australian: No rules, regulations or government laws apply or will be enforced  
> [2] Australian: stingy  
> [3] Australian: provocatively dressed woman  
> [4] Australian: a ‘frostie’ is a cold beer  
> [5] Scottish: a bar  
> [6] Scottish: good
> 
> Simoom translates as 'poison wind' in Arabic, and describes a very hot, dry wind which carries massive amounts of sand.
> 
> WeirdthingsI’veresearched: Why Miss Pauling uses quick lime on bodies. Apparently it PRESERVES bodies and prevents decay by desiccation, usually used in mass graves to prevent disease spreading. The Red Cross recommends it for bodies that can't be given a deep grave. In popular media, it's considered to render a body unable to be identified. The calcium oxide reacts with atmospheric carbon dioxide to create calcium carbonate, a byproduct being high heat. Lime is also highly basic, and contact with skin can cause minor to major burns. (I studied general chemistry in college, what can I say?)
> 
> Music includes Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day and Get Out Alive by Three Days Grace.  
> If you’re wondering, I did gag writing the part about the sucked dog turd. It doesn’t so much paint a picture as take a photograph and shove it into your skull.
> 
> Believe it or not, some of the men actually do play instruments. Sniper plays tenor sax (he knits too!), Engineer plays guitar, Soldier plays trumpet, and Demoman plays piano. I believe Medic plays violin (and I wrote about that in a previous story). In-game Pyro sometimes plays air guitar, and I referred to a couple of great pieces of art for the rest of them:  
> (http://ilizley.deviantart.com/art/sing-606384497)  
> (http://daesdemona.deviantart.com/art/When-you-don-t-know-what-it-is-then-it-s-jazz-435443363)
> 
> This section took ages to get started, mostly because I had to build an Australian mafia from scratch. A lot of how it works is based on the Italian mob of the Brooklyn, New York docks, as seen in The Waterfront (the movie “I could’a been a contender” came from) back in the 50s.
> 
> Essentially, the dockworkers (longshoremen) have a union, but each morning the union boss will do a 'call up', essentially seeing who's there in order to hire out to ships that need unloading. The boss will have already made his selections on who would work where (harder jobs vs. easier jobs vs. getting no jobs at all) based on who would give kickbacks on their wages (a bribe), and who was willing to look the other way about mob activities. If you wore your hat a certain way or a toothpick behind your ear for example, that would show that you could be 'blind'. Mob bosses would make use of the workers' desperation to steal entire shipments, while bribing the unions to "lose" all of the ship and cargo paperwork. 
> 
> I came about Jack Robinson’s name by accident. I was looking up common Australian names, decided that the first and last sounded good together, and when I googled it to make sure I wasn’t stealing someone’s name, the saying came up. “Faster than you can say Jack Robinson.” Funny how things turn out like that. And for someone as well traveled as Sniper, he would have heard of the man, especially since he's had contracts there before. Word like Jack Robinson tends to get around.


	17. Khamsin

The hall was quiet and dim, the sole visible light shone down on the payphone. Sniper hesitated and stared at it.

It’s just a phone call, right? He called them whenever his work allowed, never more than a week in between unless the job was really hot.  

This one would be a little different, if he could just get up the nerve to approach the receiver. He took a deep breath. _Get ahold of yourself, man._

He stepped forward, boots thudding faintly against the wooden floors until he stood before the phone. Why they had to put their own quarters into a payphone at their own workplace was a mystery to him, but it wasn’t as if they weren’t paid a fortune here. Fishing in his pockets for a few quarters, he slid one into the slot. He slowly unhooked the earpiece and spun the rotary to dial the number. At the operator’s behest, Sniper added the in extra money for long distance calling.

Sniper almost hoped that the call would go to the answering machine, so he just leave a message. He’d make the effort to tell them, and then they couldn’t blame him. Mind you, his father would probably try anyways.

His father picked up. Damn.

“Hey… hey, dad. How’re you guys doing?”

There was a pause. “I always call, don’t I? You know how it is with the job.” He said, slightly defensive.

Sniper sighed in response to the retort. “Look, it pays the bills, doesn’t it? No, dad, I’ve already told you. I’m not killing anyone that didn’t sign up to.”

He jerked, a hand flying out. “Dad, dad, ‘m not talkin’ about this roight now. Dad, will ya let me get a word in? Dad. Dad! Give it a break fer a minute will ya?”

The receiver fell silent. Sniper took a breath and rubbed at his neck. “Alroight?” He took another breath. “I’m going to be in Australia for a few days.”

“Well… not exactly. It’s for my job,” he said reluctantly. “I can’t visit.”

He cringed at the angry burst from the phone. “Dad, I’m working, I can’t. It’s not like I can take off and go halfway across the continent.”

Another retort. “I didn’t take off on you! What am I supposed ta do, dad? Bein’ an assassin pays a hell of a lot more than herdin’ sheep!”

Sniper clenched a fist. “It- It’s not like that, dad! It’s just too dangerous fer me ta come down.”

He winced. “Yeah, dad, I know. One of these days, but not today. Even if I do, you’ll be well off. Yeah, yeah,” he said in response. “I don’t want that either, alroight?”

There was a query on the other end. “No, I can’t take a sickie[1], it-it’s not like that. I’m dealin’ with somethin’ at work.”

Sniper gestured sharply. “Oh c’mon dad, you’re important too! I just can’t right now! I just- oh c’mon dad, i-it- it’s not loike that! Ya know that ain’t true! Ya can’t just-” he spluttered.

He shut his eyes and pulled his hat off, dropping it. “I do love ya, dad, you know that,” he said softly. “I’m not doin’ it ‘cause o’ that. C’mon…”

The receiver came to life again. “No dad, I can’t just quit! It-It’s my job, dad. It’s a contract. I can’t just- dad- dammit…” he trailed off, unheeded. Dad was in full swing, just like usual. Nothin’ for it except to wait until he’s done. _No matter what he says, he loves you. He loves you, Mundy._ He had to keep believing that.

 _Deep breaths. Pull your head in[2], mate._ The receiver had gone quiet. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here dad. Yeah. I know.” He cleared his throat. “Can I talk ta mum?”

There was a sharp reply. “What? Dad, why- why not?” He said, shocked.

“Yes I know she’s upset.” He snapped. “Can ya just lemme talk to her?” He gestured swiftly with a hand. “I didn’t mean to make her cry! Will ya just- just let me square off[3] with her, huh? Come on.”

There was a pause on the other end, and the phone was passed over. “Hey, mum,” he said softly, relaxing a little.

She was so much softer spoken than dad. But, arguably, she hit harder. “Yeah, mum, it’s fer my job. We’re goin’ over to Melbourne fer a job, and then back on over ta the States.” He heard the tone on the payphone telling him he was running out of time, and chucked another quarter in. “What’s that, mum? Yeah… it’ll ‘prolly be dangerous. The mob we’re going ta meet ain’t exactly friendly.”

He paused as she spoke. “What do you mean, strangers?” A knife blade of fear pried into his gut as his mum talked. They had seen a few unfamiliar faces in what counted as their middle of nowhere town, not really passing through, not really doing much of anything. The way she described them, they weren’t Australians. So... probably not competitors.

If he had to guess, they were agents of the Administrator. Generally, the best way to know if the old cow was watching you was to turn around really quickly and see nothing at all, but this felt different. The agent you saw was the one she wanted you to see. Most likely, it was a friendly warning, a reminder of who was in charge.

Whatever the cause, his parents better not be touched. Or he would show them just how deadly a man with nothing more to lose could be.

He’d have to see about asking the others to call their families, ask them if they’re seeing the same types of watchers. Maybe not Demoman though; he heard that the man’s mum was blind thanks to the demolitions trade. Demoman was one eye away from the same fate.

Sniper sighed. “If ya keep seein’ them, tell me. I think it’s just my boss makin’ sure you’re safe, but I don’t know until I see who it is.” He couldn’t tell them why _else_ she may be paying attention. He didn’t want to start another row right now.

Her voice stirred him again. “Yeah mum, plenty of vegetables. We’re not fighting all the time, sometimes I get off base.”

He heard a faint response from his dad, and said to his mum “Yeah, I’ll be careful. And you too. And I’ll be there for Smissmas[4].”

Sniper smiled faintly. “I love you too, mum. And you too, dad. I’ll call you in a couple of days, alright?”

She gave a soft reply. “Thanks, mum. Bye.”

He pulled the phone away and slammed it onto the receiver. Balling a fist, he banged it onto the box and rested his head against the wall. _Dammit, dammit, dammit._ She was so… meek about it. She spoke softly, and it hurt all the more because of it.

Sniper was hurt, but he was also starting to feel angry. Angry that he was forced to do this, for having to put his parents through the stress, and even more so at his employer.

Most days, sniping was a good job. It paid well, and he was his own boss. At least, until he signed a contract and joined this bloody war. Now the Administrator called the shots, and he died every week. That wasn’t the kind of stuff you could call home about. At this rate, although he’d never tell his parents, the war could probably go on forever. No one died for good, so why not? As long as they had bullets, or knives, or even rocks, he’d bet on hearing the voice over the intercom, telling them to fight.

He didn’t see an end to the war, even with all the strange things going on, but it’d break his mum’s heart to tell her that. There had to be a way out somehow, but until he found it, he’d just had to do as he was told. And that wasn’t a good place to be.

Some days, this job really sucked.

 

\----------------------------------------------

The western Pacific was choppy; especially this far down south. The ocean was deep and cold here, cold as the winter snows. Teeming masses of monsters could reside under its depths, yet never be seen.

Heavy didn’t shudder, but he did step back a little from the rail. He would have to upgrade Sasha quite a bit before he took on Things from the deeps. Eldritch abominations would take a lot of custom tooled bullets to kill.

The crew of the cargo ship consisted of a dozen men, and so far Heavy had not seen any besides the captain, grey faced and silent next to the gangway as they boarded the freighter. He wondered what Miss Pauling had threatened the man with in order to get them on the ship. Traveling this way made sense; with luck, they could arrive onto the docks close to their target. According to the plan they would reach shore inside a shipping container, handily avoiding border agents and customs.

He did not like this plan. He did not like that Miss Pauling was going to meet the mafia boss on her own. Back home, something like that would mean that they never heard from her again. But in this case, they would have to go through him.

Heavy heard a rhythmic banging noise up ahead. He continued along the narrow aisle between the outer cargo containers and the rail until he reached an off branching corridor. Inside Scout sat, tossing a baseball against the walls. _Thump-thud-thunk… thump-thud-thunk…_ Scout looked up and noticed Heavy

“Oh, hey.” Scout caught the ball and jumped up. “Where ya headed to? Not that I’m following you or anythin’, just curious. I think some of the others are getting together in the back to run over the gig again. Man, I wish I could be going in with all’a you. But Miss Pauling told me she needs me outside. Man, isn’t that sweet? She’s never said somethin’ like that before. I think I’m gonna ask her out for a drink after all’a this. Ya think she likes beer?” He paused in his chatter to look questioningly at Heavy. Heavy shrugged, and started to walk onwards. Scout walked with him, as close behind as the narrow walkway would allow.

“So, there’s a Russian Mafia? What’s it like? Is it big?” he asked. Heavy had to hand it to the baby man, he was persistent.

Heavy shrugged again. He was familiar with Scout’s tactics. The sulking that would come with refusal to say anything was not worth the trouble.  “Not so. Small groups are hard to stamp out. There is no one head to cut and kill.”

This seemed to confuse the speedster, but he wasn’t one to let that stop him. “So people are constantly fighting?”

“To be Russian is to be constantly fighting. We fight the law, we fight each other, we fight the world.”

“Yeah, I’d prolly fit in with em’.” Scout grinned.

Heavy laughed, one loud guffaw. “You? You are not tough enough to survive the Bratva. Russia is not kind to little men.”

“Oh c’mon! I take on the BLU Heavy all the time! Single handed! With one hand behind my back!” he protested.

“And how many times have you died for that?”

Scout waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. I bet ya can’t do better. So do ya think that they stole the Australium?”

Heavy shrugged. The very fact that they were on their way to _Australia_ should have indicated otherwise, but this was par for the course when it came to Scout. “The Bratva do not care about Australium. There are other ways to make money.”

“Soooooo, that’s why we’re going to Australia instead?”

“We go to Australia instead because the Administrator says so.” Heavy could hear the sound of warming up instruments ahead. Practicing inside a shipping container gave strange acoustics, but what really mattered was getting the right notes down. Heavy just hoped that they would be too drunk to care about the quality. All things considered, they sounded… passable.

“What was that you said about following?” he raised an eyebrow.

Scout stopped in his tracks. “Uh, yeah, this is where I wanted to stop anyways. I’ve got more important stuff to do! Catch ya later! But only if I want to!” he called after Heavy’s bulk.

Heavy suppressed a chuckle. Stupid, funny baby man. He was glad that they were not going to threaten the Bratva. Very few survived to tell the tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Australian: a sick day  
> [2] Australian: Be quiet or keep your opinions to yourself  
> [3] Australian: apologize/ fix things  
> [4] Smissmas is an Australian take on Christmas. The story goes that on December 18th, 1788 when the first settlers came, cutthroat Nicholas Crowder decided that the heat wasn’t worth it, and commandeered a boat to the South Pole. Every December 18th he returns to Australian and abducts the kids that were naughty, the nice ones getting the gift of not being abducted. For one year the naughty kids have to make weapons for him, which are delivered as gifts to his mansion on the 17th for him to open. Then, he sells them online for prices so cheap he’s practically “giving them away”.
> 
> Khamsin (translated to “fifty” in Arabic due to its tendency to blow intermittently during the fifty day spring period) describes a wind that blows across Northern Africa. It’s a hot, dry, and sandy wind, and when it passes over an area (which can last for hours) it dumps huge masses of sand and dust from the Sahara at 140 km/hr and 5% humidity. Notably, it interfered with Napolean’s war, and the WW2 desert campaign.
> 
> Music for this section is The White Buffalo’s cover of House of the Rising Sun (Sons of Anarchy version), and Welcome to Paradise by Aviators.
> 
> WeirdthingsI’veresearched: Tape based answering machines were invented in 1934, but didn’t become widespread until 1984. *Hand wave* I actually had to look up whether or not he could leave a message after the beep.
> 
> WeirdthingsI’veresearched: Payphones, and exactly how they worked. My mother was amused.  
> Good boys are expected to take after their dad and take care of their mum, and Sniper's not. That kind of thing weighs on him, so he tries to make up for that by calling.
> 
> For extra feels, I'm putting Mann vs Machine in August. It ends in about March 1972 (Sniper probably didn't get to go home now that war was for real). And when he gets home in March, they're dead. If you want to twist the knife further, read a short fic called Welcome Home by TheBuggiest: (thebuggiest.deviantart. c o m /art/Welcome-Home-486865105) 
> 
> Most of what I know about the Bratva is from:  
> (tvtropes.o r g/ pmwiki /pmwiki .php/Main/TheMafiya) and  
> (tvtropes. o r g /pmwiki /pmwik i.php/UsefulNotes/TheNewRussia)  
> It’s all very fascinating, in a morbid way.
> 
> This is a bit of a short chapter, but only because it’s leading up to the main act. I was halfway through writing Chapter 20 before I realized that they were going to Australia, and Sniper has parents there he loves and calls. Naturally this would not be a happy conversation, since he and his dad don't get along well. It was definitely a challenge, given that we only hear one side of the conversation, but I'm happy with how it turned out. I figured it had to be written, because it was like this little 'hole' in the plot. Not really a gaping one, but one that someone might say "Why didn't you write about this?" on.


	18. That's A Dry Argument, Mate

_Melbourne, Australia_

 

“Hey, Miss Pauling, are we there yet?” Scout asked, poking his head from the cargo hold to look at Miss Pauling.

Miss Pauling sighed heavily. “Yes, Scout, we’re almost there,” she said for what felt like the umpteenth time.

“Finally, it’s getting borin’ back here.” Scout retreated to the back of the van.

Miss Pauling rolled her eyes and looked back at the hover traffic in front of her. So far everything had gone to plan; they made it into the docks without more of a hitch than to be expected from Pyro around so much water. She was able to buy a hover van, more like a bus really, from “Don’t Ask” Dave, and now they were underway.

She hoped that getting into the bar would go as smoothly.

Medic chuckled in amusement from the passenger seat. “You get used to it, after a vhile.”

“Once this mission is over, I’ll go back to doing normal assignments.” She sighed again, letting her shoulders slump a little. Of course, her definition of normal was drastically different from what an average person would imagine, but she chose long ago not to dwell on that.

“I don’t zhink zhat anyzhing vill be normal anymore vhen zhis mission is finished. Call it a gut feeling if you vill.” He shrugged casually.

“In a way, I hope you’re wrong, Medic.” She chanced a concerned glance at him before turning back to the road.

“Even zhe greatest scientists could be wrong about zhier experiments, but zhey have zhe right to be inspired; to be proven right in zheir efforts.” He seemed like he was trying to make a point.

She changed lanes, doing her best not to look _down_ at incoming traffic. “Sure, Medic.” Miss Pauling said just for sake of argument.

“Vell, let me say zhis; if I vasn’t inspired, zhe Medigun vouldn’t be here. Und, really, neizher vould I.”

Okay, she had to give him that. His feats, although gruesome, bought him the Administrator’s attention and a job. His development of the Medigun may have come as an accident and at the expense of BLU Spy, but it was a worthy sacrifice. Later, in a moment of inspiration, or perhaps desperation, he built the Ubercharge and replaced Heavy’s heart in order to make men into gods, at least for a limited time. She would know, for she watched Medic work from the observation deck above.

The Ubercharge, a device created in the middle of a battle to make the recipient invincible for a last desperate charge. The Medigun, powered by an unholy concoction which revived dying men and made broken fighters whole again. All because of a few accidents and “inspiration”, as he called it. If she had to put it to words, she would have called it madness instead.  

Miss Pauling glanced again to Medic. “Do you enjoy your job, Medic?”

Medic smiled. “Vell, zhere are some parts I don’t enjoy, Spies topping zhe list, but zhere are perks. Vhere else could I practice medicine vithout being arrested?”

 _Nowhere civilized, given that the Hippocratic Oath is even less than a suggestion to you._ Out loud, she said. “I’m glad to hear that.”

She had no idea what was going to happen after this. Was she going to finally get a name and be a step closer? After chasing so many dead ends, she wasn’t sure how much more of them, and more importantly, her employer, could take.

She pushed down on the steering yoke, lowering the van closer to ground level. They were just at the edge of the docks, where shining skyscrapers met warehouses and working men spent their off hours. She parked, back inwards, in the alley behind the bar. The towering spires of gleaming skyscrapers loomed far above with the elites, while the poor traveled on foot below.

“Alright guys, get ready. It’s show time.”

\------------------------------------------------------

 

The men piled out of the van and began pulling out their bulky gear, instruments, and all paraphernalia that went along with playing music. Miss Pauling strongly suspected that most musicians wouldn’t also have, tucked carefully into cases and cavities, enough weaponry to wage a minor skirmish. She turned off the van, and the idling jets beneath stuttered and died, to be replaced with extended struts.

Miss Pauling stood in front of the large building; warm light filtered through the windows, and loud drunken laughter penetrated the air. Inhaling the foul, beer and piss scented air, she turned to face the waiting men.

“Alright, men. What we’re about to do here is as important as, if not more, than any battle we’ve ever fought against BLU. I’m counting on you guys to do your best. If we can pull this off, there’s a good chance we can get out of here alive and able to track down the source of all this. Think of it this way; it’s another way of gaining the intelligence.”

Miss Pauling pointed. “Medic and Scout, you stay with the van. Medic, I want you behind the wheel.”

Scout jumped out of the back. “Aw, c’mon, why does he get to drive? I bet I can drive bettah than him. We’ll go faster too.”

“Since vhen did you learn how to drive?” He questioned with a quirked brow.

“Hey! I can drive on the fly!” He pointed an admonishing finger at Medic.

“Zhe only zhing flying vill be us vhen ve crash,” he huffed, absent mindedly pushing Scout’s finger away from him.

“You wanna bet? C’mon old man!” Scout rolled his shoulders like he was getting ready to fight.

This was exactly what she was afraid of. “Enough!” The two men turned to look at Miss Pauling. “Scout, I’m sorry, but I _can’t_ have you driving.”

His jaw dropped. “But-, I-, But-”

Medic leaned towards Scout’s ear. “Need medical attention?” He asked Scout softly with a mischievous smile, spectacles glinting.

“You shut the hell up!” Scout snapped, jerking away from him.

Medic guffawed. “I am, how you say, kidding, Herr Scout. Zhis isn’t exactly a place to experiment on you anyvay.” He waved his hand to brush the subject off.

“Keep talkin’ old man, an’ you’re gonna be losin’ some teeth here in a minute!” He threatened.

“I’m not _zhat_ old!” Medic retorted, his guffaw turning into chuckles.

Miss Pauling waved a hand in between them. “Can you two focus, please? Thank you.” She narrowed her eyes. “Scout, you’re riding shotgun. I need you to protect the van and make sure that we can get out of here no matter what.”

Scout’s face lit up at the prospect of her asking him to do something important, the previous burn forgotten. _Thank god for big egos,_ Miss Pauling thought.

“You can count on me, Miss P!” He pumped a fist, and went to follow Medic to the van. He climbed in, and they closed the doors behind them.

With a sigh, Miss Pauling turns to the other mercenaries who were watching with mild interest.

“Okay. Like I said before, all you have to do is distract everyone while I talk to Robinson.”

“What are we going to be called?” Heavy asked.

“I’m with ya, mate.” Sniper agreed. “We gotta ‘ave a name to play, roight?”

“Your band name is The Rock. What?” She said as the assembled men raised eyebrows.

Spy sniffed. “‘The Rock’? It’s so boring, and horribly cliche. Honestly, couldn’t you have picked a better name to give us?”

“I didn’t have the time to make up something creative!” Miss Pauling protested. “Now I’m hoping that there won’t be any trouble, but if things go bad don’t start shooting immediately. Not until I give the word at least.”

“Aw, you’re no fun.” Demoman pouted.

“And wot if ya can’t? Wot if you’re trapped and can’t get word ta us?” Sniper asked skeptically.

He did have a good, if worrying point. “Then hold off as long as you can before shooting.”

Sniper shook his head. “That ain’t a bright idea at all. This place isn’t for ankle biters[1], if you catch my meaning.”

“Well, use your best judgement then.” That in itself was a shaky concept for the men, but in this circumstance it should work. Australians don’t go in for subtleties. “I mean it, we’re just here to talk. You can join the fight if they start it.” She promised.

“Any song you would like for us to play then?” Spy asked.

“Any song is fine as long as you can play it. Just, don’t get kicked out too soon, please?”

Spy nodded. “Oui, I think we’ll do our best. But, I fear that it is Soldier and Demoman you have to worry about.” Pyro waved cheerfully at them. “And Pyro if they’re in reach of any… flammables.”

The Engineer nodded. “Don’t worry about lil’ Pyro, we had a talk about all this. So long as they don’t go askin’ fer it, we won’t give it.

“I guess that’s as good as I’m going to get. Come on,” she said as she started walking around the corner to where the back entrance was. The men followed, their shadows dancing in the dim lamp light of the constantly dark city surface.

She willed her heartbeat to slow as they approached the two guards standing by the door. There were so many angles to cover, so many what ifs… she tried her best to get as much information as possible on the place, case the joint, but it was nearly impossible to get in if you weren’t an Australian. And here she was, with seven mercenaries that would be hard pressed to fit in at a mental hospital, let alone normal civilian life, about to walk into one of the headquarters of some of the nastiest mafia in Melbourne.

Perhaps somewhere out there in the multiverse, there was a Miss Pauling who led a blameless life working for a religious charity. Wherever that one was, Miss Pauling wondered what she would be like. She certainly wouldn’t be as good at burying bodies.

The men outside the door looked like brick walls made human, even burlier than the mustachioed towers of muscle that Miss Pauling had come to associate the average Australian. They had a look in their eyes that said that no amount of Australium would raise their intelligence: an atavistic stare that announced that these two were too stubborn to do anything but follow their orders to the letter. Miss Pauling got the impression that they were out here because they were too unimaginative to be outsmarted. They regarded the approaching group with a glare that said that they were, with difficulty, restraining themselves from breaking everyone in half. For now.

“Uh, good day, you two. We’re the band for tonight. We need to set up our equipment, which we have here,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.

In the back, Spy very slowly and calmly put a hand over his eyes. The only sounds were the whir and zip of hover cars far above, and the laughter inside. The guards exchanged a look.

“Wait here.” One of the monoliths turned to the keypad by the door and brought his hand up. He stared at it for a few seconds, and then slowly entered the combination. The door opened, and he bent down to get through. The door closed behind him, and Miss Pauling smoothed her palms nervously on her dress.

The next few minutes were spent awkwardly standing in front of the door, wondering how far she could run before people with guns poured out of the door. Sniper sidled a little closer to her, whether to talk or be ready to drag her away, she didn’t know. She supposed that she should feel flattered, except that his cigarette gave the Administrator’s a run for its money. Pyro pulled out a lighter and started flicking it happily. Demoman pulled a bottle out from who-knows-where and took a swig from it. Engineer started inspecting his mechanical hand, wiggling the fingers. She could see them itching to fiddle with a weapon and hoped that her lecture on not appearing heavily armed until _after_ they’re inside and playing would stick.

After what felt like an eternity, the door opened again and the guard stepped out.

“Right-o, you can go on it. Yer on at seven, and ya choof off by ten if ya don’t knuckle first, got it? If ya got weapons, leave em’ off.”[2]

Miss Pauling leaned over to Sniper. “What’s he saying?” she whispered.

He tilted his head towards her. “We can go in. Tell em’ ‘no worries, she’ll be alright’.”[3] Sniper muttered back.

She relayed the message, and the guards stood aside to let the team in. Miss Pauling breathed an internal sigh of relief as they were shown a room by the stage to warm up in. Thankfully, it was only internal. The back rooms stank of sweat, smoke, and stale beer.

Engineer nodded to Sniper. “I hope you’ll be able to translate for us out there too, Stretch.”

Sniper set down his case without looking at them. “No worries, mate. It’s me home turf, and this is all part of the job,” he replied curtly.

The Engineer exchanged a look with Pyro, who shrugged.

“Alright guys. When you start playing, I’ll try to make my way out back and find Robinson. I’m working on whatever time you can give me, so make it good.”

“Da[4], Matryoshka.” Heavy clapped a giant hand on her shoulder as the rest of the group agreed.

“Be as quick as you can, and we may get out of here with a minimum of casualties,” Spy replied.

Miss Pauling shot an exasperated look at Spy. “Thank you, Spy, for your optimism. Alright guys, I’ll be around. Warm up and try not to kill anyone. Break a leg out there, guys.”

Soldier put down his case and saluted. “We will break all the legs, ma’am.”

She realized her mistake too late. “No! Soldier, that’s not what I meant! I was wishing you good luck!”

Soldier looked confused. “How would wishing luck involve breaking legs?”

“Never mind, forget I said anything. Please.”

She knew she shouldn’t have said anything. Right now though, any luck was better than none. The saying also never said who, or how, the leg would be broken. But, she supposed, better a leg than a neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Australian: toddlers  
> [2] "Alright, we will allow you in. You may commence playing at seven, and we will ask you to leave by ten if you do not engage in fisticuffs with our patrons before then. Should you have weapons, please do not bring them."  
> [3] "Of course, we accept those terms. Everything is perfectly fine."  
> [4] Rough translation of Cyrillic да, meaning “yes” in Russian.
> 
> Welcome to Australia, where all of the chapter titles are in strine. This title is a common phrase used to say that it's someone's turn to buy the next round of drinks.
> 
> The first section of this chapter was almost entirely written by Taylorbeth, my beta. I was having a little bit of trouble finding the inspiration/getting my ass in gear and didn’t know how to start the chapter, so she decided to help out (with permission). Either one of us will be putting up a document sooner or later containing the original thing she wrote (before I added things and moved stuff around), as well as some excerpts of our conversations. 
> 
> In an unused animation for Meet The Medic, it shows Medic accidentally inventing the Medigun, with BLU Spy being decapitated and kept alive during the process. In the actual video, his head is being kept in the fridge while Medic installs the very first Ubercharge onto Heavy’s heart (or rather, the baboon heart in the fridge next to Spy when Heavy’s actual heart blew up from the strain). For some reason, we can see a figure (Miss Pauling?) watching from the observation deck. 
> 
> Taylorbeth also practically wrote all of the Scout dialogue for his argument with Medic, and you can really tell. They do a far better Scout than me. I just can’t get into his head, beyond general cockiness and logorrhea. If you want a great Scout story, look up It Rained The Whole Time by bellepeppertronix (archive).
> 
> The band name is a combination between The Band and Ayers Rock (which has actually been officially reverted to the Aboriginal name Uluru).
> 
> The team has little nicknames for each other, some friendly, some rude. Engineer sometimes calls Sniper “Stretch”, and he calls Engineer “Truckie” back. They don’t use their own names. 
> 
> Speaking of names, I went to write a note in this section mentioning taylorbeth, but instead accidentally wrote “taylorbeta”. I’m keeping it. 
> 
> To my readers in Australia, hello. I hope that I do your country justice, with quite a few liberties taken due to the nature of the TF2 universe. As someone who hails from ~90 minutes north of Scout’s home turf, I spent ages trying to get the dialogue right.


	19. Bit Of A Worry, There

All nerves aside, Miss Pauling had to admit that things were going well. The tough crowd of the bar went through bands often enough that they were happy to take anyone naive enough, and the fact that only Flynn members were allowed in normally had made this part of the plan a necessity. Her contacts did their best, but even the toughest dock workers didn’t have the nerve to set foot in here. Most of her agents didn’t either, but through their combined efforts, she got the mercs in. The men were warming up out back, and they didn’t sound half bad. Taking a deep breath, Miss Pauling peeked around the curtain to get her first look at the bar.

Miss Pauling worked three hundred and sixty four days a year, and the hours were long enough that she hadn’t really read a book for a long time. The occasional gun magazine or newspaper she read while waiting for the cement to dry or the mark to show up didn’t count. But in her teenage years, she would frequently daydream herself into the many stories she read, often as the heroine fighting for truth and justice.

Hindsight had a habit of making the past ironic, in its own funny way.

The first thing that she noticed was that apparently the interior designer had sat down and decided that wood was really the style for everything. Wooden floors, wooden walls, wooden furniture, all polished with years of sweat, grime, and copious amounts of beer. The furniture was of the rough, easily repaired variety, beer barrels replacing chairs and tables in some places. Smoke hung heavy in the air, blotting out most of the dim light.

The second thing she noticed was the noise. The place was _packed_ with people, laughing and shouting, and beer in various stages of being poured, drank, spilled, and in some cases, she saw with faint disgust, poured over heads. Off to one part of the room men were gathered around someone flipping a wooden paddle, and cheers and boos accompanied every flip the operator made with it.

The bar was populated by the brawniest men Miss Pauling had ever seen, the kind that made Saxton Hale, the most muscular man to ever punch his way through a charging gorilla, look underweight. The barman was bustling, and scantily clad women skillfully pushed their way through the throngs of people with laden trays. There was an air of anticipation, but of what, Miss Pauling could only suspect. The crowd seemed like the sort to get entertainment out of anything, whether a song or a stabbing.

By the end of the bar, she spotted a doorway and an “employees only” sign. It had all the looks of where she wanted to go. Figuratively speaking, of course. _The things I do for my employer_ , she thought.

“This is the home of bears.”

She turned around to face a solemn Heavy. He could make the most profound observations, helped by his doctorate in Russian literature. While his shaky grasp of English left him in a unique position to contemplate and listen, he unfortunately shared those conclusions with an emphasis on blunt metaphors trauma.

Did he mean a lion’s den? She could see that.

Miss Pauling gave him a faint smile. “But we know how to take care of bears, don’t we?”

Heavy grinned in return. “Da. We wrestle them with bare hands.” He punched a huge palm with a meaty fist. “Be strong, Matryoshka.”

If Heavy could have the courage to wrestle with Russian bears, then she could deal with Robinson. “I will, Heavy.”

\----------------------------------------------

 

A few minutes after seven the curtains opened, and Miss Pauling slipped off stage. She didn’t pay attention to what the men said, or the first strains of their opening song. Not that she could anyways, as she drew into the wall of sound that was mob members at leisure.

Down here at armpit level with the Australians, the stench was almost worth not being noticed as she crossed the room, weaving through packed throngs of people. There was a yell to her right, and she stopped just in time to miss being crushed by a man crashing through the crowd onto the floor. He pushed himself back up, straightened his broken nose back into place, and shoved his way back into what was a growing fight in that direction. The crowd pushed her from behind, and she hurried into the space he vacated in order to avoid being squished.

Ducking, weaving, and sometimes pushing, she made her way to the opposite wall. People were starting to pay attention to the band, and that was all the distraction she needed to slip through the doorway into the restricted part of the bar.

It turned out to be a long hallway, with rooms and hallways on either side. Through open doors as she passed, she saw men gambling, watching women dance, playing that strange paddle game, and more. If Miss Pauling had to guess, this was where the higher ranking men in the mob had their fun.

After a while she peered around the corner, and at the very end was a door, flanked by two guards as big as the meat mountains they encountered outside. In an effort to avoid thinking about how very much she did _not_ want to go anywhere near them, she started to plan out how she’d deal with them.

Miss Pauling dismissed her pistol out of hand. All she’d get off was one shot before she’d go down, even if the mercs out in the main room were keeping most of the mob distracted. She looked at the surroundings, worked out a few details, and, steeling herself, advanced.

They gave her a hard look as she around the corner, coming closer.

“‘Ey, this is private, right? Who’re you?” The one on the right asked.

She ignored his query and continued walking, hands by her side, making eye contact. Confidence was key.

“Oy, dog[1], he asked you a question,” the other one spoke up. “Can’t you speak?”

She came within three feet of them and smiled, a tight little smile that never reached the eyes. “Good day. I’m here to see Robinson.”

“Oh yeah? E’s busy,” the first one said.

“An’ yer no Flynn, so you ain’t gettin’ past us!” his mate chimed in.

He reached out and grabbed at her throat, his limited capacity for repartee clearly spent. Ready for it, Miss Pauling lifted an arm and hauled her body to the other side, crunching downwards to trap his hand. With his hand pinned, she whipped up with the other arm to deliver a vicious elbow to the face.

The other guard was a little bit slower on the uptake, but as the guard staggered back he lunged from behind, trapping Miss Pauling’s arms to her body. She held his arms close and used this to pull herself in and up, leaving plenty of room for a double heeled assault on his groin. He grunted and dropped her, which she used as an opportunity to interlock her hands around his neck and deliver a few vicious knees to the same target, this time putting him down for the count.

The other guard, having recovered from the blow, grabbed her by the hair. She locked both hands over his huge one and squeezed tight. Then, she bent forward and twirled around until they were back to back, at the same time forcing his arm backward and up. She twisted to face his back, and the action twisted his wrist and loosened his grasp, which she used to wrench his hand from her head. Holding his forearm with both hands, she gritted her teeth and pushed, forward and up. As he lurched forward, arm dislocating with a _crunch_ , she lashed out with a kick to his knee. His head cracked against the wall, and she spun around with another kick for good measure to his mate.

Barely thirty seconds had passed and both men were on the floor, not going anywhere. Miss Pauling giggled a little, still high on adrenaline. “Wow,” she whispered, amazed. “I can’t believe that worked!”

Her hair was a mess, so she pulled it back into a bun while she waited for her heartbeat to slow. That done, she regarded the door with a little apprehension. Well, she’d come this far. If she could take down the bouncers, she could keep going. She paused and considered once again whether or not to pull her gun, before deciding against it. After all, people rarely stopped to talk when you upped the ante that high. People were much less likely to automatically reach for their own weapon when you appeared harmless. Start off without it, and see where that went.

Having made up her mind, Miss Pauling opened the door. She closed it behind her, and, sparing a thought for the two men outside in a word of pain, locked the door behind her. Inside, sitting at a paperwork strewn desk made of rich woods was a man on the phone, mostly turned away in a swivel office chair. He was bald and brown eyed, with a mustache fit for two men. The suit he wore looked badly tailored, when in fact it was a well-tailored suit that nonetheless struggled to fit around the sheer brawn of a macho Australian. She spied scars in his hands, a sign that at one time, maybe even recently, he had done his own fighting.

Miss Pauling spared a quick glance around the room. A thick carpet lined the floor, quick to muffle sound and easily to dispose of when covered in blood. There were no convenient pieces of furniture to use as cover, and she bet that there was a trapdoor behind his desk, all the better for a quick getaway from this hornet’s nest.

“Yeah, if you want to go to the bottom of the harbour on that one, talk to Larrikin Larry about it. He’s quite the galah, but his stuff’s as good as ridgy didge.”[2] He swung the chair around and spotted Miss Pauling by the door. His eyes glinted dangerously for a fraction of a second, before switching seamlessly into mild amusement as he looked up at her. If she hadn’t been looking for it, she might have missed it.  “Hey mate, I got to run. I’ll call back tomorrow arvo. Right.”[3] He hung up the phone with a click and smiled at her.

“Well, hello sweetheart. Who’re you? And how did you get past my boys?”

She returned his gaze solemnly. “Mr. Robinson, my name is Miss Pauling. And this should be considered your only warning.”

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The last chords of the song died, and while there wasn’t any cheering, people seemed to be listening. To Engineer, this was a promising sign.

Now he had seen some pretty bad watering holes in rural Texas as an oil rig worker, but this one here put them all to shame. Well, that was a lie; there was that one that you never asked for a light in, if you knew what was good for you. And that other one, where the beer smelled like gasoline, and you didn’t want to be smoking when you went to the outhouse…

Anyways, it wasn’t a place you’d bring a lady to. From the look of it, the only ladies in here were working ones. And he hoped that they were just serving drinks.

He looked over at Heavy and they shared a nod. Heavy led the next song, and in a few bars Engineer joined him. With any luck, Miss Pauling would come out while they were still playing songs that sounded good.

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

Robinson gave the impression of constant movement while sitting in place, a sort of barely contained energy. He wore a brown suit, with suspenders, but no tie that someone could use to strangle him. His smile remained, but his eyes narrowed skeptically.

“Oh really? What’s that supposed to mean?”

She took a few steps into the room, giving it a once over. They were alone, and hopefully undisturbed. As far as she knew the only door was behind her, but she would be prepared to bet that there was some kind of tunnel or secret exit behind Robinson’s desk

Well, here goes. “It means that I know what happened beneath the Painted Jezebel.”

The impact that had on him was profound. He snapped his shoulders back and the smile vanished, chased by an almost imperceptible flicker of wide eyed panic, and ultimately replaced by an ugly scowl. His posture had changed, from the loose, easy going businessman, to someone that could and probably already had beaten people to death with his bare hands. Dented and dull brass knuckles, half hidden under paperwork, bore witness to this possibility.

“Is that so?” he growled, pushing his chair back, putting forearms the size of clubs onto the desk. “I don’t know how you would, since the only other men who were there are dead.” He drummed a few fingers on the desktop. “And as for you, what’s stopping me from callin’ in a few boys right now? It’ll be hard to talk when your vocal cords are slashed. Do you think that you’re the first person to try and blackmail me?”  

And here he smiled like a cobra. “Give me one good reason to not send you so far down in the opal mines of the dead heart[4] that you’ll never see the light of day again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Strine: an ugly woman  
> [2] "Well, if you want to go to great lengths to avoid taxation on this matter, talk to 'Troublemaker' Larry. He is a bit of a fool, but his products are comparable to the real thing."  
> [3] "Friend, my attention is required elsewhere. I will call you back tomorrow afternoon. Sure."  
> [4] Strine: the center of Australia
> 
> The chapter title translates to something of general concern (very broad statement).
> 
> Ever watch Courage the Cowardly Dog? _“The things I do for love…”_
> 
> Look up Russian bears sometime. They are HUGE.
> 
> I looked up a few opening hours at bars near me (While I am of age, I don’t drink. Never had to know.), and while it depends on the day, most of them open up at 4 sun-wed, 11:30 thurs-sat. By 7 pm people can be still coming in or leaving, so not everyone is drunk.
> 
> The ‘strange paddle game’ is called Two Up, where two coins are placed on a paddle and spectators bet on how they’ll come down. It’s only legally allowed to be played in public on April 25th, when they honor their veterans. 
> 
> I write the rough draft as a sort of cross between a play and story, so the guards used to talk like this:  
> RG01: *right* “‘Ey, this is private, right? Who’re you?”   
> RG02: “Oy, dog, he asked you a question,” *other* “Can’t you speak?”  
> Their designation was a shameless shout out, let me have my fun. If you read the chapters fast enough after they came out (~ within 24 hours) you may have caught some of my sloppier conversions from outline format. I write that way to keep myself from getting bogged down in the details. 
> 
> I based Miss Pauling’s moves off of a video I watched on self-defense, since I don’t know much on takedown moves. I take kickboxing cardio classes, but those are less focused on fancy moves and more on being able to throw good punches and kicks for a solid hour. If you have to defend yourself, don’t get scared. Get angry.
> 
> The part about the weapon is in agreement with an observation Terry Pratchett once made, that _“You got into more trouble if you had a weapon. People shot you instantly if they thought you were going to shoot them. But if you were unarmed, they often stopped to talk. Admittedly, they tended to say things like ‘You'll never guess what we're going to do you, pal,’ but that took time. And Rincewind could do a lot with a few seconds. He could use them to live longer in”_ (The Last Continent, 71).
> 
> I based a lot of Robinson’s appearance off of a picture of Bilious Hale, Saxton Hale’s father. My boyfriend is a criminal justice major, and it was from him that I was surprised to learn that police officers don’t wear real ties. They (and security officers) usually wear clip on ties if they have to, so that someone can’t pull on it to strangle them. 
> 
> Robinson’s threat was actually a source of serious discussion with my beta. I started off with something similar to the creepypasta “Lolita Toy” (NOT for the faint of heart or anyone bothered by X-rated stuff), the specifics of which I will not divulge here. She was mostly concerned about the story rating and I had to agree. She convinced me to tone it down to what happened to the Pendleton twins in the video game Dishonored, except I changed it to opal mines instead of silver.
> 
> Have you ever heard of Coober Pedy? Coolest town ever, sited within old Australian opal mines.


	20. Come Off The Grass

Scout slumped in his seat, playing with his sawn off shotgun. The alley was dead. Like, really dead. You couldn’t even hear the music out here. And they couldn’t turn the radio way up. Medic was over there hogging it, trying to tune into some garbage fancy music… orchestra or something. Miss Pauling insisted on keeping quiet, saying that they needed to keep focused. Man, what a kill joy. But she looked good saying it, so that was alright.

Keep focused… keep focused… on what? The two guards standing at the door? Watching a guy pick his nose wasn’t his idea of a good time. Maybe it was Medic’s. He’d probably be thinking how improve the snot digging or something. He was the kind of guy who if he said ‘got your nose’, it wouldn’t be a figure of speech.

Waiting around for something to happen, it sucked big time. Who knew how long they’d be in there? There might be all sorts of fights goin’ on in there, and here he was. Stuck outside, with a mad doctor.

At least he got to sit in the future car. He saw one of these in a comic, the one where the X-Men went to Australia to fight crime. That was a pretty sweet issue. Tried flirting with the counter girl too, but she had a boyfriend and he kept watching her from the music aisle. Freakin’ nut job.

This future car had all sorts of buttons in it. Buttons on the dash, on the roof, and even the door. Well she said to keep the volume down, but maybe everything else was fair game. He pushed a button, which lit up a little joystick. Enthralled, he moved the joystick all around, and watched the side mirror pivot. This captured his attention for a few minutes while he made faces in the mirror.

He moved on to the button next to it, which looked like a saddle. Pressing on the center did nothing, but when he pushed one end the door window started going down. The other side made it go back up. _Vrrrrrrrm. Vrrrrrrm._  He watched it go up and down for a few seconds. Then, looking carefully, he found a button of the same shape on the front dash.

 _Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrm._ The windshield started going down, startling Medic out of whatever reverie he was using in an effort to ignore Scout.

“Scout! Vhat did you do?” Medic hissed.

“Nothin’. Just pressed a button.”

“Vell, stop it! Zhis isn’t a toy!”

Scout shrugged and pressed the other side of the button, making the windshield rise back into place. He slumped back into his seat, dejected. But hey… maybe there was something in the glove compartment. Or whatever that little latch on the dashboard was. He flicked it open and started rummaging in the compartment.

“Really, Scout?” The older man rolled his eyes. “Ve got zhis zhing from who knows vhere, und you’re going to stick your hands right in it?”

“You’re one to talk, mister ‘got room for anozher organ in zhere’.” He butchered Medic’s accent. “And since when did you learn how to drive a flying car?”

Medic waved a hand. “I can drive a van.”

“A van and a flyin’ car are two different things! I could do it better.”

Medic quirked a brow. “You can’t even drive.”

“Well it’s not like you’ve got more experience than me at flyin’. I’m fast enough to take off just runnin’.”

Medic chuckled “Ja, you are right. Ve should have had Soldier drive. Heaven knows he spends enough time jumping off of rocket blasts, he should be qvite at home up zhere.”

“Are you crazy?” Scout gaped at him. “Well, I mean, yeah, but he’d make us crash! And then take on the concrete mixer headed our way. With his helmet. We’d splash.”

“Vell, I’d hope not. Ve’re out of range of Respawn.”

That didn’t sound good. That was the exact opposite of good. “You mean, we could die here?” he squeaked.

“Vell, ja.” Medic replied matter of factly. “Veren’t you paying attention vhen zhe Fraulein told us zhat?”

“I was listening,” Scout retorted defensively. He was actually paying attention to how pretty her lips were, but hey, of all the body parts he could be paying attention to, the lips were good enough. “I just didn’t know she meant forever.”

Medic paused, a rubber gloved hand making scritching sounds on his stubble. “Vell, zhe best ve could do is drag your cold, dead body back vithin range of Respawn and reload zhe most recent gencode copy of you zhat ve have. You’d lose all of zhe memories you had after zhe gencode vas made, but it’s better zhan losing your life. So don’t press anyzhing zhat might kill you.

Scout jerked back from the dashboard. “Ok then, not touchin’ anything. Yep.” He took a look around the cabin. “Sooooo….” he pointed at a button by the radio. “Whaddya think this one does?”

Medic groaned, smacking a hand over his eyes. Of all the people he had to be stuck in the van with, it had to be Scout.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

Sniper held out a note on the saxophone, and then let it die away into Soldier’s solo. They practiced this one pretty well, but knowing Soldier, he’d have to listen for his cue instead of counting out the proper amount of measures. This kind of song allowed for a long trumpet solo, so they’d be alright there.

The team was still on familiar ground, song wise. That’s a place Sniper wanted to stay in, because the more mistakes they made, the more likely the crowd was to get unsettled. A bad band was an easy target, and a good excuse to start a fight. So far the crowd wasn’t cheering, but they weren’t booing, which as a veteran of many Australian bars (and fights) he considered to be a good thing.

He gave a nervous glance to the doorway that Miss Pauling had vanished through. It wasn’t right, her going by herself. But everyone on the team wasn’t what he’d call conspicuous- as her continued employment dedicated to keeping them out of jail attested to that- and that wasn’t what she needed. Sniper wished that he’d gone with her. Never mind that as soon as he spoke and they heard his accent, as scrawny and mustache-less as he was, they would pick a fight on principle, Robinson wasn’t the kind of bloke you saw alone. He was quick witted and quick to act, and you could find yourself without a head if you couldn’t keep up.

Now, he’d never met the man personally… but you heard things. Word like Robinson gets around and it pays to keep an ear to the ground, especially when bagging contracts on unfamiliar turf. You never knew what rival could be doing mafia work on the side.

The trouble with all this is even as the resident expert of the team, people like him tended to attract trouble with the locals. Soft spoken, lean, and unable to grow the signature Australian shaped chest hair of typical Australians, fights often found him. It wasn’t an accident that he became a sniper. It wasn’t a sociable job, but he wasn’t a sociable person.

Soldier’s solo was coming to an end, helped along by a nudge from Engineer. He brought his instrument up again and jumped back into the song.

She could take care of herself, he knew, but cleaning up loose ends was one thing and taking on a Melbourne mob boss was another.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Robinson gave her an intense look, fingers quietly drumming. She knew he wasn’t lying; in this business a criminal didn’t make it far if they weren’t honest. In business deals, people had to know that your word was good. Sometimes it was all you had.

He seemed to be expecting an answer, so she took a chance.

Miss Pauling sighed. “And we were doing so well. The first reason is that inside and outside of this building are nine men who live, fight, and die on a daily basis. Should anything happen to me, they are the first people you will have to answer to.”

A criminal also didn’t make it to the top of any organization by being stupid. Anyone who had heard of the Administrator knew about the Gravel Wars of the Badlands. It was the kind of place that frequently lost landmarks, courtesy of RED and BLU. It didn’t take a genius to imagine what even half of the eighteen mercenaries could do to his headquarters.

“The second is that I am indispensable to my employer, whom you know as The Administrator.” She hoped to hell it was still true. “She knows far more about you and your organization than what happened at The Painted Jezebel. You know who I work for, and what she is capable of.”

Anyone powerful enough to be in the business- and if you didn’t know what the business was, then you weren’t in it- knew how far the Administrator’s reach was. She had the names, numbers, and information about the world’s governments, and anyone else capable of being a mover and shaker. At the center of a complex web of information, the black widow sat. A smart man knew enough to not disturb her.

Robinson sat back, crossing his arms. His brows rose, and Miss Pauling plunged onward.

She took a deep breath. “Finally, as I’m sure you’re aware, in this business we don’t make threats, only promises. Now that we’ve gotten that out of our system, how about we act like business associates?”

\---------------------------------------------

 

The team was starting to go onto some of their less practiced songs. That was the trouble. There was only so much that they could do on such short notice, and he and his teammates were starting to hit a limit.

Jazz was a lot more forgiving of improvisation, so perhaps for a time, they could stall it with solos. But as far as Spy was concerned, if he didn’t have lyrics, he couldn’t sing. In between sets he suggested that they switch to songs that a few could play, instead of the full group. Some of them hadn’t been willing, but with an impatient crowd, what else could they do?

Spy took a sip from a water bottle and watched Pyro theatrically play a solo. But then Heavy missed his cue, and that delayed Sniper coming back in, and made the music messy and disjointed for a solid ten seconds before they could fix it. That was happening more and more often, and he noticed a few people draining their beers and holding onto them, as if sizing up a target. People knew how the songs were supposed to go, and every mistake they made was another thorn in the side of their audience.

They were already starting to hurl insults, audible here and there among the crowd noise. He feared that soon they would start to throw objects instead.

\---------------------------------------

 

Robinson leaned an arm onto his chair, seemingly in thought. He reached over to his desk, pulled out a cigar, and lit it. He scrutinized her carefully, puffing on the cigar.

“No associate of mine sneaks past my guards and barges in to threaten me,” he drawled. Acrid smoke hovered in the air.

Miss Pauling clasped her hands, not daring to speak. He nodded, seeming to reach a decision.

“You mind telling me what this is all about? I got a business to run, and if that means settling quickly with you, then fine. I’ll play. But you’ve got five minutes. I don’t rave[1] or earbash[2], and I get my due one way or another. What’ve you got to say for yourself?”

She let out the breath that she was holding, a glimmer of a smile reaching her lips in satisfaction. With threats of grievous bodily harm behind them, perhaps she could get the infamous Jack Robinson to cooperate.

“I’m looking for a shipment of something very valuable,” she said, smoothing down her shirt. “I know what you and your men do around here. I’ve also heard that nothing enters or leaves these docks without you knowing about it.”

Robinson chuckled, and it would have been convincing if she hadn’t seen the flash of fear in his eyes. The situation reminded her a little of when she was very young, fishing with her grandfather. _Play the line. Wait, and the fish will hook themselves._

“And who told you that bull dust?[3] Now I won’t deny that I’ve got some influence in these parts, but as long as I get a cut there’s plenty that goes on without me needing to have a sticky[4] in it.” He shrugged. “I can’t help ya there.”

Steady… just keep him talking. Sooner or later he’d dig himself into a hole. “I’d have to disagree, Mr. Robinson,” she replied primly. “You and I know better than that. A shipment of ours came through here, and the only way it could have arrived in the state that it did is if something happened to it here.”

Robinson leaned back and puffed on his cigar. “Now I think what we have here, Miss Pauling, is a misunderstanding. You,” he gestured to her with cigar, “think that I have somethin’ ta do with your stolen shipment. While I,” he pointed with cigar to his chest, “have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 _Gotcha._ “I never said it was stolen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Strine: Speak for long periods of time, esp. about personal things.  
> [2] Strine: Speak or be spoken to incessantly.  
> [3] Strine: Nonsense/ A fine dust clay found in the outback.  
> [4] Strine: Pry into others' affairs
> 
> Chapter title translates to “Tell me the truth”.
> 
> There actually was a comic arc where the X-Men were situated in Australia, called the Uncanny X-Men. According to one of the articles I read while researching it (#weirdthingsI’ve researched), it was a strong reason why Hugh Jackman became Wolverine. 
> 
> Power windows have been around since 1941, although the first ones (vacuum operated) were available in Plymouth convertibles in the late 1930s. Electrically operated ones showed up about 1954. However, it took until about the 90s for power windows to become common and not something you had to order specifically from the manufacturer. They wouldn’t be something that Scout was familiar with (especially coming from a poor family from the south side of Boston), not to mention all of the other futuristic things common in the TF2 Australia.
> 
> In regards to Medic’s van skills, he actually acquired his pet dove Archimedes when he stole the catering van from a prime minister’s wedding. No other details were given.  
> I found a funny art piece about it (parallelpie. deviantart. c o m /art/TheVan-327435936)  
> And a very compelling short fic (ladymordred. deviantart.c o m /art/Archimedes-326727278)
> 
> Sniper doesn’t know this yet, but he hails from New Zealand, which in this universe was sunk into an Atlantis/Krypton like place. Like Krypton it was doomed (hole in the dome) and he was accidentally blasted out by rocket to middle of nowhere Australia, where he was adopted. (This is the condensed version, see the comics for more details). In any case, he was never burly and masculine like the other boys, preferred to hide in the trees and throw rocks rather than scrap with them. He never grew a mustache, or chest hair in the shape of Australia. He’s an outcast, and the moment he opens his mouth and speaks native strine it gets the hackles up on natives. There’s a reason why he does such a lonely job. He’s a bloody kiwi.
> 
> Some of the songs that I imagine that they play are, in no particular order:  
> \- 25 or 6 to 4, by Chicago  
> \- House of the Rising Sun, cover by The White Buffalo  
> \- Turn the Page, by Bob Seger  
> \- Bad Company, by Bad Company  
> \- Wrong Side of Heaven, by Five Finger Death Punch  
> \- 7 Nation Army, by The White Stripes  
> \- Renegade, by Styx  
> \- Love You Madly, cover by Cake  
> \- Paint It Black, by the Rolling Stones  
> \- Short Skirt/Long Jacket, cover by Cake  
> \- Radar Love, by Golden Earring
> 
> Some of those aren’t exactly period consistent, but oh well. If you can think of other songs that would go well with their instruments, give a shout in the comments. I’m curious as to what kind of songs you’d imagine.


	21. In The Blue

Sniper looked worriedly at the rest of the band. They were long past a friendly crowd, if they ever had one.

A fight was starting to break out near the stage, and it was only a matter of time before it began to head their way. Angry Australians were very generous with violence in a bar fight. They liked to make sure that everyone got at least a little involved. A fight could start for any reason; someone could get into your personal space (although the actual radius depended on the person), or someone looked at you funny, or the band was bad, or you were just plain bored. Men like these loved the kind of brawl where everyone piled in, where people threw knives without really aiming too hard, and you didn’t take it too personally when someone tried to perform cosmetic surgery on you with a broken bottle. The guy you were fighting was drunk, but so were you, and everyone else too. Most cases, people weren’t actually trying to kill each other, especially in a bar like this where you all worked for the Flynn. But, Sniper figured, since the team looked foreign enough, they might put a little more effort into it.

Someone screamed nearby, and he ducked instinctively as a new volley of projectiles flew at the stage. Everyone had stopped playing except Soldier, who was still standing stiffly in the center of the stage, playing the trumpet he had been given by Miss Pauling. They were past the rotten fruit stage, and onto the empty beer can stage. No Australian in their right mind would waste perfectly good beer by throwing it.

“Get outta there, mate! MOVE!” he yelled, trying to be heard over the din of the crowd.

A beer bottle came hurtling out of the mob, spiraling end over end. Time seemed to crawl as it neared the stage. As if in slow motion, it drew the attention of everyone, gracefully soaring. Sniper winced as it nailed Soldier right in the helmet, exploding into shards.

The crowd cheered at this new form of entertainment. Soldier paused and lowered the trumpet slowly, and the laughter faltered. He leisurely placed it bell first on the stage, stood ramrod straight, and reached into his jacket. The whole room watched as he pulled out an E-Tool shovel.

Quick as lightning, he raised it above his head and charged at the crowd. “MAGGOTS!” he yelled, taking a flying leap into the thickest group of people.

“Solly! You’re gonna get killed!” Engineer ran to the edge of the stage.

Soldier for his part was having the time of his life. The more people you’re fighting, the more likely they are to get in each other’s way, and with such a volatile crowd that meant everyone was fighting everybody, and he had plenty of targets.

The rest of the mercs watched him kick and punch from the stage, while they slowly pulled out weapons from instrument cases. The thought that was going through their heads was a variation on the theme of: if we go down there, we’re all going to die. And he’s doing fine, right? Well, ok, maybe that punch there was a good one, but he took it well. If he was really in trouble, we’d go in there, but what if we’re needed somewhere else? Better to hang back a bit.

One huge piece of work got under Soldier, and they watched him rise, and keep going. The big man threw him through the air, and he landed heavily back on stage.

“You pansy hippies throw like a Tuesday! Come back here and fight like a girl!” he yelled at the ceiling. Demoman grabbed him and dragged him behind the barrels that lined the stage while he was still stunned.

Someone opened fire in the crowd, a bullet ricocheting off of the beer barrels and into the wall. The men dove for cover, weapons in hand. Sniper felt the familiar thrill rise, albeit in far different circumstances than the average battlefield. Heavy opened fire in response, and people dove for cover behind chairs and tables. A noticeable divide grew until the two sides hunkered down behind cover in a rapidly escalating gunfight.

Sniper peeked over the barrel tops and fired a few bullets, ducking back quickly. Well, they gave it their best shot at a peaceful distraction. With any luck, and he hesitated to hope for that, given how far south things had gone, Miss Pauling would get back before they had to go looking for her.

\------------------------------------

 

Robinson’s expression remained a poker face for a moment, and then he quirked a nonchalant smile at her. He shrugged. “Well, that’s what we call coming to a conclusion. You wouldn’t be here making threats if your precious cargo showed up. If somebody stole it, then it wasn’t us.”

His insistence of innocence was starting to get on her nerves. This had to be the place where it went missing; she even had a confession of sorts! It was stolen! Well, it might not hold up in court, but it was something. Something was going on here, and if he would just tell her it’d go so much easier for everyone. What did he know? There had to be something more.

Miss Pauling was tired of dead ends, of too many questions and not enough answers. She knew that her employer was too, and if she came back yet again empty handed it wouldn’t go well. Next time, she might not throw the knife at the wall.

They were so close to _something_ , she could feel it. It couldn’t slip out of her grasp. Not again.

“But you know what happened to it. I know it.”

Robinson frowned and spread his hands. “How much clearer can I make this? I,” he pointed a huge thumb at chest, “have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, since I can’t kill you, I’ll tell you to take it up with the union bosses. You know how it goes, you dance to a tune long enough, and you start to know how it goes. Maybe they’re following in my example.”

Miss Pauling felt herself losing patience with him. “Do you think that brushing me off is going to get you out of this? We know you’re involved, and my employer isn’t being picky about who she targets. If I leave empty handed… trust me, you’re better off dealing with me.”

If anything, he seemed to be getting amused at her deteriorating patience. If playing dumb was an award, he was in the running for first prize. He smirked. “Do you ever do anything other than threaten people? I judge people by their actions, and all I’m seeing is a whole lotta talkin’.”

Miss Pauling heard a loud crack, muffled by the door, followed by several more. The sound of the crowd, audible at this distance from the main room, turned to shouts and screams, accompanied by the patter of what she knew to be gunfire.

Miss Pauling felt her stomach churn, but didn’t turn her head, didn’t react. The way things were going, the first person to be distracted was going down. She was determined that it wouldn’t be her. She had hoped for more time, certainly, but what did she expect in the end? The men were predictable, to an extent. The odds of getting struck by lightning after winning the lottery were better than getting out of here peacefully. It was a hope, and a vain hope at that, the kind that makes people search their pockets again for the keys they know aren’t there.

There was another bang, louder, and the sound of men yelling, running towards the main bar. This time Robinson heard it too. He looked up, eyes narrowing as he listened. “Olly? Dodger? What’s goin’ on out there?!” he barked.

Miss Pauling made eye contact as they listened and waited. No one replied. He clenched his fists. “What did you do to my men?” he growled.

“I just finished what they started. They attacked me first.” She was starting to wish she hadn’t locked the door when she came in.

Another flurry of gunshots rang down the hall. Robinson clenched down on his cigar. “Well that makes everything better, don’t it? A man tries to do his job, and he gets killed for it.”

He had finally dropped the corrupt businessman act, but Miss Pauling took no satisfaction in that.

“I didn’t kill them, Mr. Robinson.”

“Even if you didn’t, your men are going to kill some of mine in whatever’s goin’ on out there. What right do you think you have to that?” He stood up and pointed at her. “Ya think you can just barge in and stand over[1] me and my men? What kind of crooked job is that?”

Robinson’s hands were away from the desk, where she’d bet hard money that several weapons were stored. Granted, the giant ones he had on the end of each arm were closer to hand, but she was at the other side of the room and on the other side of the desk, so she probably had enough distance away that she would have the advantage. This was as good of a chance as she was going to get.

Someone screamed out in the main bar, and she used the distraction to reach down and draw her gun. She aimed it at his groin, hands steady. “It’s the kind of job where if The Administrator wants something done, I get it done. I’m out of patience, and you’re out of time.

Robinson seemed unperturbed. “You’re gonna shoot me with that little thing? It’d bounce off!” he scoffed.

“Not where I’m aiming.” There was a brief moment for him to connect the line of trajectory towards its target. “There are a few major arteries there. Do _you_ know how long it would take you to bleed out? I do.”

“You’re bluffing.” He looked alarmed, but narrowed his eyes in skepticism.

“And you’re being held at gunpoint by someone who can and has pulled the trigger many times before. There’s only a handful of people I’ve met in this job that I haven’t had to kill. I don’t want to have to kill you, but if you make me, I won’t hesitate,” she said calmly, even though she knew killing him would cause a lot of problems.

He glanced past her at the door, but the fight was still in full swing. Unless something completely drastic happened, no one would pay attention to the quiet little conversation in the office when there was a fully-fledged gunfight outside. While it created quite a few problems, she mused, it did give her the upper hand. Robinson was on his own.

Robinson spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Alright, alright… fine.” She was impressed. He sounded as exasperated as any man could be when held at gunpoint. “What do you want?”

 

\-------------------------------------

 

There were buttons on the side of the car seat on his half of the van. Scout peered carefully at them, and, with the lightest of taps, pressed one. The seat inched forwards by a fraction of an inch.

This was so cool. Like, they had buttons for everything in this thing. Need a cup holder? Pa-pow! Your seat’s cold? Not anymore! And from what Sniper said, “It’d do”. Like they had even fancier flying vans out there. American cars barely had power windows, and didn’t even fly. When he went back, he was _definitely_ going to have to buy one to take Miss Pauling out in. She’d take one look at that thing, and fall head over heels. Yeah. It’d definitely work.

Everyone was taking forever inside. And all he had to do to keep him from getting bored was watch the dudes by the door and listen to Medic’s garbage “symphonic” music. What kind of word was that? Sounded stupid, and so did the music.

A bang sounded off from the direction of the building, followed by several more a few more seconds later. Scout and Medic’s heads whipped up. They had been fighting in the Gravel Wars for far too long not to know gunfire when they heard it.

Medic grinned. “It has begun.”

Scout scrabbled for his gun. “Woah wait really? Now? Shit. We gotta go.”

Medic reached out and pushed him back into his seat. “Nein, schweinhund. Vhat if zhey come out with half of zhe bar on zheir tail? Ve need to be ready to go.”

The sound of a few more gunshots thudded their way out of the building. “We can’t just sit here!” People were probably doing all sorts of cool stuff and he was missing it!

Medic rolled his eyes. “Ve have our job to do. Let zhem do zheirs. Zhe fraulein is counting on us.”

Scout thudded back into his seat, annoyed. What a kill joy. Then, he noticed the guards by the door. They were glancing at the door in concern, but they weren’t leaving their posts. One of them shot a few suspicious glares at the van.

“Hey, Medic,” he whispered. “You think that they’ll be ready to shoot whoever comes out of the door?”

Medic glanced in his side mirror at the two guards. They were clutching their weapons, and as he watched, one turned to point his at the door.

“As soon as that door opens, I bet they’ll fire. Gunfight like that? They’re keeping everyone from gettin’ in or out,” he said urgently.

Medic sighed in exasperation.  “Fine, Scout. If you must. Try not to shoot zhem. All ve need is someone on zhe street to hear zhat und call zhe police. Make it quiet.”

Scout fist pumped, and reached behind him for his bat. He opened the door, and jumped out into the alley. A dumpster stood against the alley wall, trash overflowing onto the ground. As he passed, Scout got an idea. He kicked a couple of cans along in front of him.

The guards looked at him warily, one of them pointing his gun in Scout’s direction. He held up his hands, one holding the bat by the barrel. “Woah, guys, woah. Ya don’t gotta shoot me, I’m just bored. Don’t ya ever get bored?”

The first guard stared at him dully. “No one gets through this door without Robinson saying so.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. I’m just gonna be over here.” He started kicking a can by his feet aimlessly, back and forth. “You ever been so poor you didn’t have a soccer ball?” One of them wrinkled a brow in confusion, but the act was compelling. He lowered his weapon. “Well, turns out a can works fine too. See?” He kicked it up, hopped onto his other foot, and kicked it up into the air. He bounced it on his elbow, flipped it to his hand, back to his elbow, and then down to his feet again.

“And ya can do trick shots too.” They watched impassively as he bounced the can around a few more times, kicking up a second one. He juggled them between his feet, keeping his hold on the bat.

Suddenly he kicked one high into the air and whipped his bat arm out, sliding his hand down to the grip. He brought his other hand onto the bat and swung it around just as the can began to fall, striking it. It sailed and hit the left guard in the face just as he kicked up the second can, hitting a homerun with the other right into the face of the right guard. They staggered, stunned, and Scout strafed right as they fired wildly to where he once stood. He darted left and smashed one in the jaw with the knob of his bat and grabbed the other by the collar, pulled him over for a vicious ground pound to the skull. The other guy reeled backwards, his head just at the right height for Scout to swing and hit.

Scout laughed as the second one fell. “Swing, batta batta! Who wants some more of this?” He pointed a thumb at his chest. The two guards didn’t respond. He shrugged and kicked one of the cans at them. “Eh, you guys are losers anyway.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” He said as he jumped back into the van. He laughed. “Man, they didn’t even see it comin’.”

Medic humphed in his seat. With all that noise, he had missed the soprano solo on the radio that he had been looking forward to. “It vould seem zhat doing zhings quietly is a foreign concept to you,” he grumbled.

“Well I didn’t see you jumpin’ up to do it!” Scout retorted. He snickered. “That was pretty sweet. They were a great audience.”

Another couple of gunshots pattered inside. “It vould seem zhat zhe same cannot be said of inside.”

“Yeah.” Another boom resounded from inside. “You think they’ll come out before the cops get here?”

“Who knows? At zhe very least, zhey von’t have to deal vith zhe guards.” He fell silent, and turned the music up a little.

“So what-”

“Shut up. Zhis is zhe good part.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Strine: an act of force/aggression
> 
> Chapter title translates to a “situation or event that is out of control”.
> 
> Shout out to Terry Pratchett with weapons being closer to hand. _“He had, tucked away in his exquisitely tailored black clothes, at least eighteen devices for killing people, but he was becoming aware that Lance-Constable Detritus had one on the end of each of his arms. Closer, as it were, to hand” (Men at Arms)._
> 
> A general rule of thumb is that anyone within 21 ft of someone with a gun can get right up and attack them before they have time to draw, aim, and fire their weapon. You’re probably better off not bothering with shooting, and just pistol whip them in self-defense.
> 
> weirdthingsI'veresearched: It takes anywhere from a couple of minutes to fifteen for someone to bleed out from a gunshot there, depending on the artery, number of arteries, and how severe the wound is. 
> 
> The guards are confused because outside of America, soccer is primarily called football. They actually do play something similar to American football, called Australian Rules Football (also called “Aussie rules” or “footy”). Its origins can be traced back to the 1800s, with some roots in Gaelic football and rugby. It’s played on a sort of modified cricket field, and is oval shaped. Only in Australia, folks.


	22. Shoot Through Like A Bondi Train

Miss Pauling and Jack Robinson made a stationary tableau in the office, to the background of gunfire and screams.

“I’m done talking. I want you to tell me where the Australium is. You have five seconds to start.”

In one last throw at pleading ignorance, Robinson said, “I don’t-”

Miss Pauling squared her shoulders. “Three. Two.”

“Alright! Alright! We don’t have it!” he yelled.

The frantic proclamation hit her and sank like a weight in her stomach. Not here? But if it wasn’t here, then where? Pushing through the shock and growing fear, she hissed, “Then where is it?”

“I don’t know. A tape showed up in the bar for me a couple of weeks ago. No one saw who left it. Couldn’t see who it was when we played it, but they said that they’d pay us to swap two shipments. Told us where to find a load of cash to start, paid more after we’d done it. I didn’t know what it was, or that is was going to you, I swear!” he rambled.

She fought the urge to just pull the trigger and be done with it. The Australium wasn’t here, and the longer they stayed the more chance there was she’d end up having to drag a corpse back to Respawn. And the machine wasn’t perfect, so there was always that slight chance that someone could come back horribly wrong. But, besides the obvious of having to build up a new relationship with Robinson’s replacement if she killed him now, a few more details needed wrapping up.

“Where was the shipment you swapped going?”

Robinson blinked. “What?”

“The Australium,” she said. “What was the name of the ship? What nationality?”

A glimmer of his bravado came back. “Oh, that? Funny thing, but it didn’t show up on any registries, or even our own papers. Called it _The Maker_. Doesn’t matter anyways. No matter what I tell ya, if it had something like your Australium on it, it’s already changed names twice and been repainted. Happens all the time here, wouldn’t be surprised if they did it too.”

Miss Pauling ground her teeth, and then, smelled a faint whiff of smoke. She inhaled again, and the smoke smell grew stronger. She thought quickly; with Pyro in the building, it didn’t take long to figure out how much trouble they were in. A nice wooden, flammable place like this’d go up quick, and if the flames reached the bar while they were still inside… there may be no one left alive to get everyone else back to Respawn. And with a fire, who could blame Robinson if the team didn’t make it out? There might not even be enough remains left for the Administrator to find.

They needed to get out of here. Now.

“Do you still have the tape?” she asked urgently.

“Yeah. I do.” His expression looked too much like a poker face for her to be entirely comfortable. “It’s in the desk drawer here.”

Miss Pauling shifted her aim a little to the left. “Move slowly, then.”

He bent at the shoulders, slowly moving towards the desk drawer. He pulled it open and reached inside. Miss Pauling watched, her shoulders stiff with tension. Robinson whipped his arm up, and as he tried to bring the hidden gun to bear on her, she fired.

The bullet struck him in the leg, and in the part of her brain that was still rational, she knew that a shot like that would fracture bone and sever nerves. The shot rang in the room and Robinson collapsed, howling.

Like a flash, she ran around the desk to where Robinson writhed on the carpet, which would have to be disposed of by now. He gritted his teeth in pain, and clutched at the bulletwound.  She aimed her gun at him, this time lower.

“The _tape_ , Mr. Robinson. Or do you want to lose your kneecap next?” she hissed.

Something hammered on the door. “Jack! You in there?! We gotta go!”

“Where is the tape, Robinson?” Miss Pauling demanded.

“Jack!” Someone tried the door handle, and then started beating against the door to break it down. The smoke was starting to waft under the door crack and fill the room. Panic started to settle in her mind alongside adrenaline.

“It’s there,” he rasped through gritted teeth. “Take it and go fuck yourself, you c-” The person outside slammed on the door again, drowning him out.

She looked to the side, keeping the gun trained on Robinson. The door buckled from another body slam. Strewn amongst papers in the drawer was a videotape. Miss Pauling lashed out and snatched the tape.

Pockets, pockets… she internally cursed at the size of the tape. She shoved it down her shirt. More smoke was pouring in from under the door, and the air was starting to get hazy.

Miss Pauling looked down on Robinson, and then over to the trapdoor that, as predicted, was behind his desk. He glared at her from the floor, ruined leg clutched in both blood covered hands. If he made it out and to a doctor relatively soon, he would live. With a limp that would grow worse over time, but he would live. Call it a lifelong reminder of what happened when you defied the Administrator.

“None of this would have happened if you had cooperated,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Curse you!” Robinson spat. “You think you rule the world today, but every ruler fears the revolution. Good on whoever stole that Australium.” He smiled, a contorted grimace. “The world keeps turning.”

“They’ll die for that. But,” she gave a small apologetic smile, “I think that you will live. Remember my name.”

The door shuddered under another charge down the hall. Miss Pauling crept up to the door and heard the person outside readying for another assault on the door. Quietly, she eased the lock out of position and turned the doorknob so that the door was barely in place. Then, she crept to the side opposite of the hinges and listened.

“Jack!” Footsteps thundered down the hall. With a crash, the person collided with the door, and it flew open. A figure stumbled, tripped, and fell heavily as the door slammed against the wall. Miss Pauling darted out as they entered the room, running down the smoke filled hall.

The rooms she ran past were empty, the occupants having either fled the building or run towards the dwindling gunfight in the main room. Shots were still being fired, here and there, but as she approached the main room flames were visible on the ceiling, and some of the walls. The smoke burned in her lungs and she slowed down at the bar doorway, coughing.

The flames licked and grew on one side of the room, slowly devouring its way to the bar. The remaining fighters crouched behind barrels on the other side of the room in between the shrapnel, wounded dragging themselves away, and debris. The air was choked with smoke, and Miss Pauling hit the deck, coughing. Running on adrenaline, she crept army style across the floor in between tables and chairs. The heat was intense on this side of the room, but, Miss Pauling reflected, it was better than getting shot in the crossfire.

The men were fanned out behind barrels and snagged tables up on stage. On her corner, Heavy trained on the Australians across the room and fired.

“Heavy!” She coughed. “Heavy! It’s me!” She yelled over the gunfire.

Heavy glanced over the barrels and grinned hugely. “You are here, Matryoshka!” He reached down a giant hand and shouted over his shoulder. “Miss Pauling is back!”

Engineer turned his head, and she could see where a passing bullet had nicked his ear. “‘Bout time! Sorry ma’am, it’s been gettin’ a little hot in here!”

As if it could hear him, the fire reached the counter, which was soaked in years' worth of alcohol, and roared. Ducked behind the barricade, they all watched the flames.

“Pull out guys! We gotta move! Now!” She got up and waved to the back of the stage.

“What about Robinson?” Sniper asked.

And down the hall, as the flames reached the plush carpet, a trap door closed. Robinson would live, that was for sure, and he would not forget. Even after The Flynn rebuilt itself and his eventual replacement years later, he would always remember the woman in purple.

Miss Pauling, however, didn’t know this. “Taken care of! We gotta go! Come on!”

They needed no more encouragement, and ran down the hall just behind her. As she pushed open the door- she found the guards sprawled on the ground on the other side, unconscious for some reason- sirens filled the air.

She took a deep breath of the fresh night air. Well, fresh for coastal city air, which varied across the spectrum of fishy to armpit. Her pace quickened. There was no way they could be here when the police showed up.

Miss Pauling ran down the rest of the alley and hauled the back doors open, leaping into the van. Medic gunned the engines to life, and the men climbed in after her.

Scout flung an arm around his headrest to smile at her. “Hey Miss Pauling! You see what-”

Miss Pauling stumbled to the back of the front seats. “Hit it, Medic! GO! GO! GO!”

Medic grinned hugely. “Jawohl! Hold onto somezhing!”He stomped on the accelerator just as Spy closed the back doors, sending Spy face first into them with a curse.

He yanked back on the steering yoke and floored the pedal. They rose with dizzying speed, lurching around the corner to the main street. Miss Pauling breathed a sigh of relief, wobbly legs giving way to sitting on one of the ammunition crates. They made it out. Bloody and bruised, she saw as she looked around at everyone, but they were all still alive.

The men themselves seemed unconcerned, ejecting spent casings and reloading weapons, or wrapping up cuts with spare handkerchiefs. In that way, she envied them. They didn’t seem to worry about the repercussions of their battles, or what would happen in the future. They just reloaded their weapons, dealt with their injuries the best they could, and got ready for the next battle. In their position, she supposed, that was the best they could do.

As it was, she was probably going to face some stern questions when they got back. Gunfights in a burning bar and shooting people tended to do that.

She looked over at Demoman, who was taking a deep swig from a whiskey bottle she recognized from the bar. “Seriously, Demoman?”

Demoman brought the bottle down and looked over at her defensively. “What? It was just lyin’ aboot. Can’t let it go to waste.”

Behind them, there was a huge explosion. The shockwave thudded against the back window, rocking the van. It pitched the van forward, sending everyone to the front with yells of surprise. A spare grenade rattled into the front cockpit, hitting the windshield in front of Medic.

“Ach! Vhat did I say about holding onto somezhing?” he tossed it back indignantly.

Miss Pauling pushed herself up. “What was that?”

She pushed her way to the back window. Outside, the tall glittering skyscraper that sat above the bar, lit by spotlights and the fire that now burned below, was leaning at a dangerous angle, smoke pouring out of the base.

“Oh, no,” she breathed. Yeah. She was definitely in trouble now.

“Uh, Miss Pauling?” Scout yelled, looking out of the window behind them. “We got company!”

And now she could see it too, rising up from the buildings around the failing spire. A cloud of hover cars, headlights gleaming, advanced from the smoldering remains like a swarm of fireflies. Or maybe killer bees, she mentally corrected herself. Far behind them, the bar exploded again. Destroy the nest, and they would attack en masse. Gaining on them, the first wave of hover crafts opened fire.

Miss Pauling shoved her way to the front. “Medic! Evasive maneuvers! Move it!”

“Jawohl![1]” Medic cackled hysterically.

Scout yelped and grabbed onto the panic handle above the door as Medic started jinking and juking. Medic rose above the line of traffic and glowing lane markers and floored it.

Medic glanced over to the side mirror by Scout. “Scout! Vhat did you do to zhe mirror, shweinhunde?! I can't see!” A lucky shot by a mafia member exploded the mirror into shrapnel. “Oh, fess,” he rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Bullets sang and pinged off the bodywork all around them, shattering windows. As if on autopilot, the men leaned out of the holes, shouldering aside glass shards to fire back. Soldier picked up the grenade rolling on the floor, ripped out the pin with his teeth, and threw it into their contrails. It bounced off the lead car in pursuit and collided with the one next to it. The craft exploded into a rain of fire, taking out two others on the way down.

Miss Pauling could see the amount of casualties if they flew through the city, even at this hour. They had to get out, far away… and then she saw the solution. “Medic! Fly down by the docks!”

“Ja ha ha ha!” he yanked the steering yoke around in a nearly ninety degree turn, slamming everyone onto one side of the van.

Medic corrected, and the sudden change in G forces threw the men to the floor, glass shards and spent shells cutting and slashing.

Demoman hauled himself to his feet and fired a sticky grenade at a craft shooting past, just barely missing the van. “Are ye mad?! You’re gonna get us killed lad!”

Scout leaned out the window and shot at the nearest car. “Whoops! Hope you got insurance!” he whooped.

The van lurched down, smacking onto the roof of a factory. They skidded along the top for a couple of yards before Medic pulled up, just missing a ventilation unit on top.

“Hey! Watch it!” Sniper yelled from the back.

“Don’t tell me how to drive!” Medic yanked the yoke left suddenly to avoid a light pole, and the hovercraft behind them smashed into it, plummeting to the ground.

Engineer pulled himself in from a window just in time to dodge an antenna flying by. “Pull up! We’re gonna splat!”

“No backseat driving or I’m stopping zhe van zhis instant!” He pulled up and juked to the right just as a sticky bomb Demoman shot at a hover car exploded.

Scout leaned out the window and took a quick shot at the hood of a car, and something inside the hood burst into flames. “Ha! Don’t you know anything about highway safety?” he yelled as it started to plunge. He leaned farther out of the window, and his belt hooked around the door handle.

He fired off a quick burst with his scattergun, and as the occupants returned fire he yanked himself back inside, his belt pulled on the door handle. “Hey!” he yelled, trying to free himself. A sudden maneuver from Medic sent him against the door, and it flew open.

Scout shrieked wordlessly and pinwheeled his hands in the air, wildly catching onto the door’s handle bar with one hand. He clung to it as the roof of a building zipped past his feet and they crossed a street, the chasm stretching hundreds of feet below. The wind whistled in his ears as bullets sang around him.

“MEDIC! HELP!” he screamed, more out of habit than directly at the man. A bullet zipped past him and ricocheted off of the door frame.

Medic swore as he was forced to dodge to avoid a cloud of shrapnel. “Scout! Hold on!”

“I’m trying!” he yelled back, banging off of the swinging door.

Miss Pauling darted forward, panic rising as she vaulted the console towards the open door. With one hand firmly wrapped around the panic handle, she braced herself against the floor of the van and grabbed at Scout’s belt. She hauled, but the angle was wrong and Scout merely swung in the space between, yelling at the pain from his arm.

Miss Pauling let go of scout and crouched, getting a grip on the seat. “MEDIC! RIGHT TURN!” she yelled over the wind.

“Jawohl!” he hollered back, sharping yanking on the yoke. Everyone in the back was thrown to the left side, protesting. In the beneficial G-forces, Miss Pauling pulled on Scout’s belt again, straining, and this time she succeeded in levering Scout’s feet into the cockpit. She scrambled backwards to her original handhold on the door and grasped his shirt collar, dragging him further inside. Scout pushed off of the door to latch onto the seat, half falling onto her, stunned.

Scout looked up at her with a dazed grin on his face. “You... saved me. I mean, I knew you would. See? We're made for each other."

Miss Pauling reached out and grabbed at the door, slamming it shut. “Idiot,” she muttered under her breath. “Really, Scout? Lock the door!” she yelled as she extricated herself from beneath him, climbing over the console again.

Scout rolled his shoulder and grinned, reloading his gun.

A hovercraft came soaring down from above and collided with the van. The roof dented and the van dropped from the impact.  It rose again for another hit, but as it plunged down Medic jerked the hovercar left and up to dodge. As they passed, Soldier threw a grenade into the cockpit through a broken window. It flashed bright against the dim light above the docks. The shockwave peppered the exterior with hot metal and knocked everyone down inside.

Miss Pauling blinked fast to get rid of the afterimage the blast left, gripped the bench as she handed bullets to Heavy. There were still a lot of mafia members pursuing them. “We need to get to the north end of the docks, Medic! Everyone else, try to pick off as many of them as you can!”

“Vhich vay is north, fraulein?” he asked.

Sniper pushed his way to the front and leaned over the driver’s seat. The panorama of glittering lights lay on one side, the darkness of the ocean on the other. He pointed off in the distance at a bright light. “You see that over there, mate? It’s Coode Island. Head for that!” He pushed off to the back, and Miss Pauling shoved a handful of bullets into his hands as he staggered to a window.

A lucky shot from outside zipped in through the window and ricocheted off of the floor, rebounding to strike Soldier in the leg. Cursing, he fell over.

Medic glanced back. “Stay alive back zhere, ja? No rest stops!”

Grunting, Soldier hauled himself up onto one knee and aimed out the window with his shotgun. “That ricochet was cheating! Those hippies have just made me angry!”

Giggling, Pyro poked out of a window and fired their flare gun out over the cloud of shooting hovercrafts. The charge shot out in a long firework-like arc, striking a large vehicle in the center of the swarm. It burst into flames and careened off to the right, striking another vehicle. They rebounded off of each other and collided with the ones around them in a dazzling chain reaction of fire and metal.

The firebug clapped their hands and watched the light show as a quarter of the surviving hovercrafts fell from the sky. Two hovercrafts pulled up on either side to shoot into the van. One was dispatched by Spy peering out the window and firing off one shot, right into the driver’s skull. The other pulled up close to Scout and he fired at it with his sawn off shotgun from the passenger seat. It swerved to avoid the shell, and crashed into a passing billboard.

“Hey! Use ya blinkah’ when changing lanes!” Scout yelled after it, gritting his teeth as it showered hot metal shards onto him. Medic swerved around a building, and he scrabbled to pull himself into the vehicle again.

In the back of the van, the Engineer took careful aim with his shotgun and shot at a power line just as they were passing. It whipped backwards and shorted out the two hover crafts it landed on, forcing the dead crafts to drop like a stone.

“Whoooowee, would ya look at that!” The Engineer chuckled “Down under? More like six feet down under.”

Next to him, Sniper released a breath and fired his rifle far at the back of the pack. “Boom, headshot.” He muttered as the craft lost control, its driver slumped against the controls. It shot forward, colliding with three others before crashing into the dock buildings below, exploding.

“Show off.” Spy glared at Sniper and, clutching a bleeding arm to his chest, shot out the window one-handed without looking, causing the hovercraft speeding up on that side to lose a hover thruster and pinwheel wildly off behind them.

“Jus’ try to keep up!” Sniper retorted and took another shot out the window, picking off a hovercraft just behind them. The explosion whipped glass shards past his face, opening a myriad of small cuts.

Miss Pauling pulled herself up to the front. “Down there!” she yelled. “That’s the ship we need to get to! Keep an eye on it!” She took a look outside at the twenty or so pursuants behind them. “How are you guys holding up?” She called to the other men behind her.

“Need more bullets soon!” Heavy yelled, turning a sooty and cut face towards her for a moment.

“I’m with yah there, we’re runnin’ outta ammo back here!” Engineer’s shirt was stained with blood; from where, she couldn’t tell.

Soldier beat his shovel against his helmet. “We will take on the enemy bare handed if we have to! And then we will cut off their hands and fight with those too!”

Another explosion rocked the van, and Medic jerked at the controls. “I zhink ve are losing thrust!” he yelled.

They could all see it now it; the van couldn’t go any higher. A maze of buildings and poles loomed ahead. More importantly, they still had the mob chasing them. They had to ditch the van, but where? All the options she could think of either involved dying in a crash, or surviving to get shot by angry Flynn members. Medic dodged a pole and headed for the ocean, and the ship, in absence of orders from her.

And then she saw what they needed to do. “Medic! Fly under the docks!”

Medic hesitated, and then narrowed his eyes. “Ja, fraulein!” They swooped, plunging low underneath the concrete and steel. Devoid of even the city lights, darkness enveloped them. He slowed in the sudden mirk to get his bearings between the dock supports. The van swerved between the supporting pillars, and then headlights shone on them as the hover cars of the mob followed. Medic gunned the van, and they shot forward. The rocks and sand of low tide menaced in the darkness below.

Miss Pauling turned to the men in the sudden gloom. “Demo, Pyro, Soldier, I need you to make a bomb.”

Demoman looked agog at her. “What for? With what?”

“Anything. We need a really big bomb to drop behind us, make them think we crashed. Bigger than a sticky bomb.”

Pyro clapped, and Demoman nodded. “Aye lassie, we kin do that.”

She turned back to Medic, who was dodging and weaving through the beams supporting the concrete and asphalt docks above. “Do you remember where the ship we came here in was docked?”

Medic swerved again. “Ja, I do.”

“Keep her steady ya daftie! You’ll have us all blown up!” Demoman yelled.

“Oh ja? You try driving through zhis und see how vell you do!” Medic retorted.

“Mhrhr huh!” Pyro said, their shout muffled by the fire mask.

“He wants your whiskey bottle!” Engineer shouted from the back.

“What?” Demoman looked askance at the fire lighter. “Why do ye want that?”

“Muh hurduh hurmuh”

“They think it’ll make the fire spread out more” Engineer translated as he took a shot out the window.

“Oh come on.” Demoman protested.

“Just do it!” Miss Pauling shouted from by the cockpit.

“Fine, but ye owe me one,” he grumbled.

“Let’s just get out alive first.”

She listened to them debate and argue, a knot tightening in her stomach. Medic was doing his best, but they were running out of time.

“Where do ya want this?” Demoman called out.

Miss Pauling turned around. He was holding what looked like an unholy cross between a sticky bomb, a flare gun, and a whiskey bottle with a rag in it, all attached to the end of Soldier’s rocket launcher. “Medic, I want you to find a good straightaway and gun it, get all of them behind us. Then I want you, Soldier, to shoot that at a pillar just as we pass through the column, alright? Got it, you two?”

They shouted their agreement, and Medic gunned the accelerator, putting a good distance between them and the remaining mob cars. They sped alongside a line of pillars, and Demoman lit the rag on the end of the whiskey bottle.

“Now!” he yelled and jerked the wheel, threading them between two pillars in the column. Soldier got down on one knee with the barrel pointed out a broken back window, and pulled the trigger. The rocket shot out of the tube, its load strapped tight by duct tape, and struck where the post met the boards above. It exploded in a burst of flames, sending out a shockwave that hurled the rest of the mob back and the team forward.

The van plunged downwards, slapping once, twice, three times against the sand, spinning in circles on the retrorockets before crashing against the rocks. Medic killed the engines, and they held their breath in the darkness. Another explosion ripped through the narrow space between the docks and sand. Miss Pauling crawled to a window, peering out into the shadows.

The dock was burning, and part of it had collapsed to the sand below. Smoke and embers roared through the gaping hole. The remaining crafts hovered in the air around the rubble, and opened fire on the wreckage. The pile of rubble exploded again fitfully, raining fire. Satisfied then that there were no survivors, they turned around and flew away.

She let out a big sigh of relief and started giggling, leaning her back against the dented and perforated van. “Is everyone ok? That was great.”

Scout rubbed at where his head banged on the ceiling. “Uh, you ok, Miss Pauling?”

Miss Pauling patted the van floor. Such a good van. They weren’t dead. “Yeah. I’m ok. I’m fantastic,” she chuckled, high on adrenaline. “That was fantastic.” Already, everything was starting to hurt. She needed a bath, and a long nap. She patted her shirt, where the tape still resided. As long as it had what they needed, everything else was a side benefit.

Everyone was staring at her, so she pulled herself together. They still had to get up to the surface before the tide came in, and out to the ship without the police finding them. “Alright. Ready to go, guys?” She got up and stumbled towards the door on wobbly legs. When she went to push on the door to get out, it groaned and fell off of its hinges, crashing to the ground. Fine. That was fine. So long as she got out before it exploded or did something else, that was fine. She climbed out onto the damp sand, and the men followed her.

“Now, let’s get home.” She could hear sirens approaching, and after everything that had happened today, figured that was as good of a way to end as anything.

Team Fortress Industries, going out with a bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] A respectful, emphatic yes; in a military context, yes sir.
> 
> Chapter title translates as “to depart in a great hurry”.
> 
> Hoo boy. I kept putting off writing this because I knew the chase scene would be tough. But then I was writing Pauling’s dialogue with Robinson and it was going well, so I threw caution to the winds and said ‘what the hell, here we go’. Kudos to my beta, who watched me for the energy filled, exhausting three hours. I’d never written this much in one sitting.  
> For this section, I highly recommend listening to FamilyJules’s cover of **Through Fire and Flames**. It goes really well with the chase.
> 
> The threat to kneecapping was an accidental reference to the works of SanctusCecidit, as pointed out to me by my beta. I was so confused at the time (it had been a long time since I read the stories). She got a kick out of it, so I figured it was funny enough to mention. Go read their stuff! _*makes shooing motions*_
> 
> I actually researched Australian insults to do Robinson properly. They’re also incredibly nasty in my country, so I censored one of them a bit. But you gotta have a Precision F-Strike for emphasis.
> 
> VHSes were invented in the 70s by Sony. Before that, video tapes were very expensive.
> 
> The whole section with Scout dangling out of the hover car was heavily suggested/ argued for by Taylorbeth. She wanted to hurt Scout, but don’t we all? She also wrote the line he says when Miss Pauling drags him back in. The Taylorbeta really wanted it written. 
> 
> In addition, TaylorBeth actually drew fantastic fanart for that particular scene, which can be found here: (https://taylorbeth.deviantart.com/art/Shoot-Through-Like-a-Bondi-Train-701328651)
> 
> For that matter, this entire chapter was her idea. I was just going to have the scene end with them staring outside watching the fire, but that’s not TF2 like. She was all excited and kept coming up with cool lines, and that’s why this got written. 
> 
> When I originally wrote this I did so without bothering to look up what docks were like. I looked it up while I was polishing the rough draft, and it turns out I got a few things wrong. Serves me right. I had to go back and do a little research about where they actually were.
> 
> To start with they were closest to Webb Dock at the mouth of the Yarra River. Miss Pauling directed them towards Swanson Dock on Coode Island, where the cargo ship dock was being constructed (1966-1972). We're going to pretend that the tide is low enough to allow for hover cars to have plenty of room to fly, and that what's left Coode Island is somewhat visible at low tide.
> 
> This can be considered the peak of the story. Let me know what you think! Besides a few comments here and there, I have no idea how you guys are feeling about all this. Thanks for sticking around. 
> 
> Before we move on, I’ll leave you with what my beta left me after I finished this chapter: _“What we can achieve, can only be achieved by inspiration, drive, and heart. I am honored to have worked on such a great chapter with an awesome author. It was fun, exciting, and exhausting at the same time but I don’t regret the tired eyes. We worked together on this and I believe the results are exemplary. I hope you do too~ Taylor Beth.”_


	23. What Comes After The End Of The Line?

_Team Fortress Industries_

_Location Unknown_

 

Miss Pauling stood by the Administrator’s chair, hands clasped behind her back. The week long sea voyage back was a blessing in a way. A shower, clean clothes, and a minute with Medic’s Medigun made all the world of difference, and then there wasn’t much to do until she returned besides sleep and read books. There was no cell reception across the depths of the Pacific, so for the first time in years she wasn’t constantly on call. Bliss.

No sooner had she set foot back in America did she call the Administrator, and now here she was. It had almost been like a vacation, out at sea, with only the occasional mediation between the captain and the team. It had been kind of tense for a few days when Heavy started wildly firing into the ocean halfway through the voyage, but least said, soonest mended.

She had discovered to her dismay that the tape casing had been cracked in the excitement of the hovercraft chase across the docks. On closer examination however, the tape itself was still intact. That was a relief. She didn’t want to live in a world where she accidentally destroyed the one thing they worked so hard to get.

The Melbourne authorities were still picking apart exactly what happened in what the papers called the “Dockside Disaster”. The police had been itching for a legal reason to get into the bar for ages, so she supposed that she had done them a favor of sorts. There wasn’t much left to get into, and it was underneath seventy stories of collapsed spire, but it was the thought that counted.

The spire itself, according to the newspaper she snagged from the docks, contained mostly offices, and was nearly empty by the time the bar’s liquor stores exploded. Quite a few bodies were found in the bar, once the building was detonated and the rubble mostly removed were beyond identification. If they had stayed any longer in that building… she didn’t even want to think about the end result of that.

The article went on to surmise that the only people missing in action in the aftermath of the explosion were believed to have ties to the Flynn mob, and that perhaps the events of that ‘fateful night’ were the result of a power play by gangs, which the Flynn lost. That had gotten a laugh out of her. _If only they knew…_

Which they wouldn’t. No need to make more work for herself.

The Administrator had not spoken since Miss Pauling had arrived, beyond a simple greeting and reaching for the tape she had proffered. On the large screen before them, it flickered to life from the beginning for the third time.

A figure sat in front of the camera, their features lost in the darkness that enveloped all but the outline, which gave her the impression of a man in a suit.

_“Greetings, Mr. Robinson. It’s best if you never learn my name. Everyone has enemies, as I’m sure you understand._

_I have a proposal to make to you. I require two shipments at your dock to be exchanged, for a sum of one million Australian dollars. As a gesture of goodwill, tomorrow you will find ten percent of that amount on an arriving ship bearing an IMO of 0172956, in shipping container CSQU3054383._

_Your task is to exchange two shipments, as displayed.”_ Two lines of text appeared for a second in the lower left corner of the screen, and Miss Pauling thought she saw _The Maker_ as one of the ships.

_“When they are exchanged and depart, you will receive the payment on ship IMO 0285689, in container VDWU6287606. Do us both a favor, and don’t attempt to double-cross me. I have no patience for thieves._

_It is a pleasure doing business with you.”_

The screen flickered to static, and Miss Pauling shifted on her aching feet, patiently counting in her head to one hundred. There were no sounds in the room other than the ventilation and the quiet turning of the tape.

The display snapped back into focus, with the figure in the same position.

_“And as for you? Soon, you will know my name.”_

With that the screen blinked to static again for three seconds. The tape ended, and the room was lit by the blue of the screen.

Miss Pauling waited nervously for the Administrator to speak. Would all sins be forgiven? She didn’t know. They shot and burned their way through the city, but they weren’t actually caught. There was almost nothing the authorities could use to tie them to what happened unless Flynn himself talked to the police. Which could hypothetically happen, given that an intelligence report that said, to her relief, that Flynn was alive if nowhere near kicking, but that would bring the police closer to what remained of his mafia than he liked. Miss Pauling was betting on him not wanting the world to know that a petite woman in purple and a handful of men decimated most of his organization.

They weren’t trying to, but maybe that was the point. The men were walking disasters, and a smart man would stay away from them. She took a little bit of pride from the fact that people who messed with Team Fortress Industries didn’t escape entirely unscathed.

The Administrator hadn’t moved yet, seemingly transfixed on the screen. This didn’t put her at ease. Her boss could appear tranquil when at the height of fury.

Finally the Administrator stirred, and turned to face her. “And what do you have to say for yourself, Miss Pauling?”

Her stomach roilled. But she kept her voice level and replied, “In what way, ma’am?”

“I ordered you to find our thief. While, admittedly, you discovered the means, and punished the middleman for participating, you have returned without the Australium and without the perpetrator.”

“They were long gone, and we were running out of time! Should I have dragged Robinson back with me?” she protested.

The Administrator waved her cigarette holder, leading a smoky trail in the air. “No. He was useless. At least I do not have to build a new relationship with what is left of the Flynn. It is only a mercy that he is still alive after you allowed the men to rampage through half of Melbourne. Idiots.”

Her cheeks burned with shame and outrage. She couldn’t think of a single way that it could have gone better, given the little time they had to prepare. And yeah, maybe leaving the men alone wasn’t the best idea, but how else was she going to get to Robinson? They couldn’t take on the whole building at once. They technically did anyways, but planning that from the start probably would have resulted in Robinson getting away in the commotion.

“We didn’t have time-”

“Time is a luxury. Don’t make excuses.” The Administrator interrupted coldly. There was silence for a few seconds, and then she sighed. “For two weeks, RED was off the battlefield. I kept BLU occupied… but I’m sure that questions will be asked. Again. As it sits, a lot of effort was expended for little gain. A cryptic video with very few leads. I expect you to follow up on these.”

Her heart sank. There was no point in arguing. “Yes, Madam Administrator.”

“Hmph. As it sits, the closest we have to a description is from a simple mail handler and an intentionally dark video. An old man. No name, no address, nothing. Nothing beyond wild guesses.”

Miss Pauling gripped her clipboard in the sudden silence. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

“You are dismissed, Miss Pauling. Don’t fail me again.”

She kept her expression neutral and posture straight until she left the room. Only then, when the door had closed, did Miss Pauling allow her shoulders to slump. She leaned against the wall and beat it with a fist. It wasn’t fair! None of it was fair. She did her best… and that wasn’t enough.

There was no way she was going to be fired from this job. She would make it up somehow. No matter how long it took.

And in the room of the Administrator, the tape began to play again.

_“Greetings, Mr. Robinson. It’s best if you never learn my name. Everyone has enemies, as I’m sure you understand....”_

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

_August, 1971_

_Badlands_

_RED Base_

 

It was quiet at RED base. And for that matter, at BLU base as well. There was none of the usual backdrop of yelling, machinery and power tools, or occasional gunfire and explosions that you usually heard during ceasefires. It was as if the entire complex was in shock.

And people were, in a way. There was a hush settled over both sides, the kind that gives way to shouting once the news has sunk in. For now the battlefields baked in the sun, empty.

Sniper emerged from his camper van and ducked to sit in the low doorway, two beers in hand. He passed one to Spy, who was sitting on a crate in the shade, and they watched the late afternoon heat mirage dance.

It should have been a time of celebration. The Mann brothers were dead. The war was over.

Spy took a sip from his bottle, winced at the taste, and glanced to Sniper. “It is strange, non?”

Sniper suppressed a smirk. Such a typical statement from the man, a quasi-observation with five different meanings. Was it strange how quiet the base was, when they should be discussing a battle strategy? That was exactly what had been doing when the news came in, an hour ago. Now, there was no point.

Sniper quirked an eyebrow at Spy, a smile creeping onto his face. “Ya mind spelling that out, mate? Not all of us speak ‘back stabbin’ snake’, ya know.”

Spy set aside his almost completely full bottle and lit a cigarette. “It’s quite simple, bushman. Both brothers and their technicians, all stabbed to death. No sign of ze killer. It fits a certain trend. Despite the implications that now we are free to go, very rich men indeed, I have to ask, why? Why go through all of zis trouble? Someone, and I am forced to conclude that it is one person responsible, has stolen our files and battle footage. I believe that the same person then killed the Mann brothers, unequivocally ending the Gravel Wars. Without ze Mann brothers, we have no reason to fight.”

“Other than hating the bastards on the other side,” Sniper quipped.

Spy took another drag on his cigarette. “Indeed. While many wars start for a reason, they endure once blood on both sides has been drawn. We may have been hired to fight for people who hate each other, but over the course of time, things have become personal.”

“That’s a fancy way of saying that we’ve all been killed too many times to forgive.”

“And as usual, it is lost on you.” Spy sighed. “However, I see no reason to kill when I’m not being paid for it. Think about it Sniper, what is ze point of studying ze fighters if you take away the very reason that they fight?”

“You got me, mate. Maybe somebody has a grudge against us. With the war over, we ain’t exactly protected.”

Spy snorted. “You think that someone went zis far just to arrest us?”

Sniper shrugged. “Doesn’t have to be arrestin’. We’ve all got enemies.” And heaven knew how many times his father has reminded him of _that_ particular drawback to his job.

“Regardless, we are left assuming zat ze same person who did this, stole ze Australium. For what purpose, no one knows. Ze Administrator is furious.”

“It doesn’t take much to put her on a bad mood anyways. If anything, the end of the war probably did that too. As long as it doesn’t come down on us, that’s her problem,” Sniper replied.

“Mm. It is concerning, nonetheless.” Spy nodded towards RED base. “When do you think it will sink in?”

Sniper waved a hand in a rocking motion. “Tonight, maybe tomorrow. It’s hard to change tracks when all ya think about for two years is your next battle.”

They sat in silence, staring at lengthening shadows around RED base. In the beginning, Sniper had counted the battles, the kills, and the deaths. Now, years later, he had lost count. That’s not something you call home and tell the folks about though. For better or worse, his coworkers were the only men who understood what that was like.

Spy sat forward, with his forearms on his knees. “When are you leaving?”

“As soon as I can get packed.” The less time he hung around here, with unhappy parents at home, the better.

Spy looked over at the bushman, frowning. As much as he hated to admit it, he had grown somewhat fond of the annoying Australian over the term of their employment, in the way that someone might acquire a taste for a foul local “delicacy”. He had a sneaking suspicion that the other man felt the same way. Yet to express this affection would go against every unspoken understanding they had. They were professionals, after all.

Spy sighed. “Understandable. I am sure we will all miss your irritating presence.”

Sniper put down his beer bottle and looked over at Spy. One side of his mouth twitched into a smile. “Is that all ya have to say, then? After all we’ve been through? No grand speech?”

Spy returned a faint smile. “Grand speeches are for villains who like to push their luck, or enemies. For friends...” he extended a hand to Sniper.

Sniper nodded and took it with his own. “It’s been a pleasure, mate.”

Spy nodded in return. “Likewise. I wish you luck, mon ami.”

“Yeah, you too, spook.”

They released each other, and turned back to watching the sun creep down the horizon. Sniper lifted his bottle of beer. “To new beginnings.”

Spy lifted his as well. “And well deserved ends.”

And by the dying light of times past, who wasn’t to say that this was as good of an end as any? Not all loose ends had been tied, but enough that they could feel like all sins were forgiven, or at least allowed to be forgotten. They had poured their blood, sweat, and tears, and forged bonds with people from across the world. And in the trials and laughter, perhaps something meaningful had come out of their efforts. It was finally over, and the future beckoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter is Will The Circle Be Unbroken, a Bioshock Infinite cover by Adriana Figueroa, and TheSecondNarrator’s orchestration of An Ending.
> 
>  **weirdthingsI'veresearched:** By cargo ship it takes about 20 days one way, but I expedited that a bit to fit a bit more with the Administrator's frenzy to get them there back in Simoom.  
>  One million Australian dollars is about ~$750,000 USD.
> 
>  **weirdthingsI'veresearched:** Ship IMO’s, and shipping container names (ISO's). I stuck with the wikipedia ISO examples, given that these are unique identifiers and I have no way of checking whether or not the one I make up is actually in use by someone.
> 
> To all of you familiar with the fandom, you know exactly what’s coming next. To those who don’t… it’s fitting. You’ll see. 
> 
> For those curious, I have posted a series of chat dialogues between TaylorBeth and I over the course of this story. A ‘behind the scenes’ if you will. It mostly can give you an idea of the people behind the story. Find it here:  
> (archiveofourown.org/works/11371563/chapters/25458348)
> 
> When I wrote that last paragraph, I wasn’t thinking about the mercenaries. It pretty much sums up how I feel about this story, and Team Fortress 2. This has been a hell of a journey, and it took a lot out of me to finish it all. Thank you for being here with me, in the end.


	24. Epilogue

_ One week later _

 

Off in the distance, the mercenaries of RED and BLU stood together beside a Mann. Co factory and watched a glittering army advance. The robotic fighters gleamed in the sunlight, jerking in a shaky lockstep over the sands towards their enemy. They halted just out of range of gunfire.

The serried ranks of robots reached behind them, where their guns were attached to their backs. Even from this distance, it was apparent just how similar the robots were to the men. They looked, fought, and even shouted battle cries in halting programmed speech just like the fighters they imitated. It did not take a genius to understand where their creator learned how to make metal men in this fashion.

The Administrator’s voice echoed over the intercom, across the badlands. “ _The robots are here! Protect Mann. Co! You **owe** me, Hale.”_

As one, the robots settled their various weapons into metallic hands, and charged. The men, mere splashes of color against a silver sea, opened fire.

All of the problems of the past, the big and small, were not important anymore.

By the time they knew the who, what, and why of the events that had driven the previous months, it was too late. Perhaps if they had put the puzzles pieces together in a different way, so jumbled and found too late, they might have seen the full picture. In any case, such a revelation would have come too late to do anything about it. Nobody had seen Grey Mann coming. Even before the war had begun, their enemy had prepared the game, set the rules, and controlled the match. 

And like a sandstorm, the enemy would bury them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unique among my stories, I came up with the name as soon as I began the document. The last words of this story were actually a variation upon the first:  
>  _Like grains of sand, the enemy would bury them…_
> 
> Music for this would be Wrong Side Of Heaven, by Five Finger Death Punch.
> 
> For those that haven’t heard of Mann vs Machine, it goes like this: Grey Mann tricks both of his brothers into meeting, and then kills them, ending the Gravel Wars. Grey Mann has an Australium life extender of his own, but one advanced enough to allow him mobility, unlike his brothers. He then decides to take the only thing of value in the Badlands, Mann. Co, by means of a robot army. The robots look, act, and fight like the nine classes of mercenary. Now that the mercenaries are out of a job, Saxton Hale then hires the men to defend Mann. Co buildings from Grey. 
> 
> Is this the end? For most of this story, I was adamant that this would be the last one I write. But… when I was writing Shoot Through Like A Bondi Train, I remembered how much fun it was to write stuff like that. The months of struggling to put together a watertight plot had been worth it, in that moment. So… I’m not sure. Whatever comes after this will take a while. My brain is pretty fried. 
> 
> Thank you again to Eliza2506 (shye-bird). Without their encouragement, I would have never started writing. They were a great beta for Ultimate, The Devil Came Down to Teufort, and the first arc of Sandstorm. If you ever read this pen, thank you so much.
> 
> And a huge heaping of thanks goes to TaylorBeth as well. They became my beta when I was alone and lost, when my story lay slowly dying. I lost Eliza after Arc One, and gained TaylorBeth halfway through Arc Two. They are a stunning editor, and a great writer. Without them, you would not be reading the story you are today. 
> 
> Furthermore, I thank Taylorbeth for creating beautiful cover art. You can see it here:  
> (taylorbeth.deviantart.com/art/Sandstorm-By-Idonian-689919252)
> 
> Thanks also go to the many writers and resources I was inspired by. Google was very helpful, and with any luck my internet history can be laid to rest. 
> 
> Most of all, dear readers, thank you so much for reading. To those who have commented, thank you.
> 
> Leave a comment, let me know what you think! I love comments, positive or negative, and I do read them all. If possible, I will also do my best to reply. It’s been a pleasure.


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